Ouroboros

I have died of cancer before. It’s true. Do not look at me that way. The tumors are in my gut, not my brain. This should explain how cavalier I have been. I should act more forlorn for the sake of your mother. She probably thinks I am in denial. But do not tell her these things, Daughter. She will probably think me crazy, as you do.

It is hard to remember my earliest lifetimes. There have been so many. The oldest I can recall is sailing the Pacific on my outrigger. The stars were so bright then. Then I became a nomad of the land. Born on horseback and trained with the bow. We laid empires low for our Khan. I was a mother many times. On one occasion, we were captured by another tribe. They took my children. Then marched us to the coast and sold us to men with grand ships. I died in the dark.

I have been conquerer and the conquered, a farmer and a revolutionary, an oligarch and a starving vagrant. I have pursued every purpose. Money. Fame. Philanthropy. Faith. Reason. I have indulged every desire and lived lives in complete service to others. But I have not found my End. When I breathe my last, I only find myself screaming back into life.

I am tired, Daughter. And hopeless. You would be too. I have searched everywhere for meaning and if it is there, I am blind to it. Oh, how much I want to see. Before the doctor called all those months ago, my oldest friend wrote to me. He is a priest and has been waiting millennia to die. Don’t roll your eyes. He said, “My dearest friend, I dreamed an ancient tree offered you its sap, and you drank and finally slept. If I do not see you again, safe travels. I will try not to envy you.”

I do not believe in god for I have sought this creator only for her to hide from me. But I pray, I pray my friend’s prophecy is true. Whatever They want, I will give it. I only want rest, and maybe an answer for all the life I had to live.

Daughter, please do not cry. For if this is my End, my death will be my greatest joy.