When Does It Start?
Collage by Andy.
Reincarnation is beautiful. It is a series of efforts from divine gods whose main priority is to cleanse and prepare you for what truly lies ahead. The process is gruesome for us. To stumble back to earth groaning once more is no easy task. But in hindsight, there’s something oddly comforting about it. Even if we don’t get it right the first, second, or seventeenth time; it is okay. There’s still enough time. Which is something we don’t think we have in this life.
Sometimes I tell myself that this is the part of the journey where the hardship begins. Maybe, the divine entities have been watching over me and have orchestrated my own happy ending without my permission.
Or maybe it’s all bullshit.
Maybe, a bearded man with a glazed look on his face stared at a fire for too long. Maybe he grew tired. Maybe—just maybe—he wanted to justify this. Justify all of this. Because acknowledging that bad things happen to us without any sort of logic or reason that could explain it is too painful.
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When you were younger, you used to sneak out to stroll on sidewalks alongside busy streets. You’d squeeze your eyes shut and march forward. Whenever a car would zoom past you, your body would seize up and it’d feel as though you were to get run over. Were you always like this? Was it all pre-determined? Heights excite you. You tell people the wrong things on purpose. You don’t look both ways before you cross the road anymore. You spit on men’s faces when they catcall you. You aren’t afraid to die, you never were.
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It’s midday in the park. The air is humid and you wish you had someone to love.
A Czechoslovakian psychiatrist, who for years would treat people who had consumed LSD, had found that many of them had re-experienced birth. The rhythmic process of exiting the canal and entering the Light. The patients all experienced the same sensation. The journey began, and then there was terror.
You are reminded of a myth that described the creation of a deity—you're not sure who. The deity had said, “I am.” As soon as it had uttered “I am," it was afraid.
In the beginning, there was nothing. Then there was one. And then there was fear.
Resolving the gruesome passage of confusion to blind fear can only be done through the loving of another. To break apart the pieces of despair and lay it upon another's grimy hands as you silently get to work and pray it doesn’t fall apart. It didn’t matter that it was faltering. It didn’t matter if the cement was your blood. It didn’t matter that every time they looked away, you’d tuck measly crumbs of yourself back inside of you, leaving what you had built to awkwardly tilt like a grotesque game of Jenga. They don’t have to know that. Horrid as these pieces are; they were yours.
You’re watching an ant carry a piece of crumb twice its size. You wonder if ants can tell when they have carried too much. Does it know? Does anyone know? How late is too late for something to be realized? You find yourself thinking of your mother.
You watch her sockets grow hollow when he’s brought up sometimes. Last night, you fell asleep to the sound of planets. Venus sounds as though metal began to weep. You’d be lying if you said the idea of becoming your mother doesn’t terrify you. The ant is nearing its home.
How do you love someone? When does it start?
Maybe some people are just difficult to love and you happened to fall into that category. The ant is inches away from its shelter before a child accidentally stomps it flat and runs away. It’s a messy, black goo in front of you now. Something that was there, isn’t there anymore. This is the natural order of life, you realize. Some are built to lose.
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You met a man.
Once the sky wore its veil, he would arrive promptly at your doorstep with a dead bird in his hand. You both agreed this was to be done in secret.
“You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right?”
“Right,” you’d say for the third time.
When you were younger, you imagined your first kiss to be magical. It would rupture the universe and leave a trail of lavender and jasmine till the both of you choked on the scent. You’d rip your ribs apart and hold each other's organs because your flesh had proved itself to be a tedious barrier between the both of you. You would love with a love that would make you weep.
Your first kiss ended up being with a coked out DJ when you were fifteen. You tried to say no. He wouldn’t listen. Afterwards, you brushed your teeth forty six times. As many times as the number of years he’d spent in this life. You hoped that by the forty sixth swipe, you’d spit the frothy water out of your mouth and hope that your gums—amongst other things—would stop hurting. I don’t think it ever stopped.
The man guides you to his bedroom. It’s painfully silent.
As he undresses you, you convince yourself that this is the only period in your life where you can simultaneously be selfish and have autonomy without the threat of consequences looming over you. You need to get it out of your system, you justify. Before adulthood knocks your knees apart and throttles you with its manhood. You tell yourself this is what people your age do. They hook up. Whatever the hell that means. It’s fun. Hot.
You begin to notice a pattern in all your previous lovers, and sometimes you ask yourself if everyone else is also playing the role. Some were kind, soft. Others were rough. Yet somehow, there was always a silent acknowledgement that both parties were doing this to pass time. And that made you sad.
Afterwards, you find there is no rush that comes out of any of it. All you end up feeling is the ghost of a textured tongue and a sickly aftertaste that won’t leave no matter how many showers you take. Every time.
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Does reincarnation occur to the living, too?
We like the idea of changing. That eventually, as the years go by you’ll casually step out of your personality and conveniently enter another and everything will click back to place. The people who left will come back just so you can kick them out properly this time around and the ice cream you had on that one field trip as a child tastes even sweeter and the ones who touched when you didn’t want them to never existed and the breathing gets easier and the happy songs don't make you sad anymore and it doesn't feel like you’re haunting your own home.
He's still pumping inside of you and before you decide to escape your body to find a more suitable spot in the corner of his room, can I tell you something? You’re going to laugh at me, I know it. But sometimes, when I close my eyes it almost feels as though this is all just a bad dream.
You awaken flushed and panting and you find the person that finally loves you stroking your back.
“Again?”
And you nod as you gratefully gulp down the water they’ve silently handed to you. They lay down again, propping their head with their hand.
“Tell me about it.”
And you do.
You tell them about the old man, the soapy mouth, the hollow lover, the fast cars, the psychedelics, the cries of Venus, the ant who tried its hardest, and how your mother ended up starving herself with all the love they told her not to waste.
They stifle a grin as you swat them with a pillow. They tell you what a vivid imagination you must have and you agree. Because you both don’t know about me. This version of yourself narrating this tale has never existed. And then you go back to sleep. You don’t have to look forward to your future anymore because you’re already in the best part. You always have been.
The next day, you awake to the scent of breakfast. They made you toast. Just the way you like it.
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You shake your head from these intrusive thoughts and watch him finish on your chest. He mistakes your shudder for an orgasm.
Afterwards, he won’t look you in the eye. He never does. You began to count how long he would last avoiding your gaze. Last night, it was fourteen minutes. You don’t know why you play this game. It’s fun. Hot.
Maybe the next life will be easier. ◆
Fatma Hassan is a Sudanese writer and artist. Instagram.