It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
You died. Congratulations. A semi-truck loaded with 14 tons of frozen pizzas took you out at the ripe age of 47. Could’ve been worse, though—you could’ve been crushed by one of those dumpster cranes. Anyway, you’re dead, and here we are.
“Where am I?” you ask.
“The Afterlife,” I say. I’m God, by the way. You can call me Todd. Or Steve. Honestly, I don’t care.”
“Wait,” you stammer. “What happens now? Is this... Heaven? Hell? A simulation?”
I roll my eyes. “Wow, someone’s been watching way too much Netflix. No, none of that garbage. Here’s the deal: you get reincarnated. Big surprise, huh?”
“Reincarnated? Like... into another person?”
“Sure,” I say, scratching my chin with a Cheeto-stained finger. “Person, cockroach, houseplant—it’s a crapshoot, really. Keeps things spicy.”
You blink. “But... why? What’s the point?”
“Ah, the big question.” I pause for dramatic effect, because I live for this part. “The point, my friend, is that you are everyone who has ever lived or ever will live.”
You stare blankly. “That... makes no sense.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I snap. “But that’s the twist, isn’t it? You’re also Gandhi, and a medieval serf, and, like, three Kardashians. And Hitler. Good luck unpacking that one in therapy!”
“What kind of system is this?”
“A deeply flawed one,” I admit, shrugging. “It’s like I started a really ambitious video game but got bored halfway through. So, now I just reuse assets and hope no one notices.”
“So... you’re saying I’ve lived every life? That I’m everyone?”
“Ding-ding-ding! A+ for you, champ. You’re literally Karen from accounting and the guy she screamed at for forgetting her Starbucks order. You’re the Pharaohs and the pyramid builders. Kind of ironic, right?”
You gape at me. “That’s horrifying. Is there some moral lesson to this?”
“Eh, probably,” I say, rummaging in a bag of Funyuns. “But mostly, it’s a labor-saving device. Do you know how much paperwork it saves if you’re just one soul? Honestly, this universe runs on duct tape and vibes.”
“So... what’s the endgame here?”
“Oh, the endgame?” I grin. “The endgame is you ‘become me.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you graduate. You level up. You unlock the ‘God’ character. You get infinite lives, infinite power, the whole shebang. Pretty sweet, right?”
You hesitate. “And then what?”
“And then... you get to make your own universe! You’ll love it. It’s like The Sims but on steroids. Only downside is you’ll get existential burnout in about five billion years. But hey, that’s future-you’s problem.”
“This is insane,” you say, throwing up your hands.
“Welcome to the club,” I reply. “Anyway, time for you to head back. You’re gonna be reincarnated as a dude named Carl in 1983. He’s gonna work at a Blockbuster and make some bad decisions. Should be fun!”
“Wait!” you shout. “Don’t I get a say in this?”
“Pfft. Free will is overrated,” I say, waving you off. “Now scram. I’ve got a whole universe to pretend to care about.”
And with that, you’re gone.
I sigh, crack open a Diet Coke, and lean back. Being God is exhausting, but someone’s gotta keep this cosmic omelet from burning.
You were vibing on your way home when—oops—you died. 💀
It was, like, a total L. A car crash. Nothing dramatic, but yeah, GG. You left behind your fam—your wifey and kiddos. It was a painless exit, tho, so no biggy. The EMTs tried their best, but nah, you were beyond saving. Gyatt, your body was mega cooked. 😭
And then, like, you met me.
“What just happened?!” you gasped.
“You’re dead, my dude,” I said, sipping on my boba tea, unfazed. ✨ “Totes finito.”
“There was this truck, and—”
“Yeah, yeah, truck-kun got you. Classic.” 😎
“Wait, so… I’m dead?”
“Yas. Don’t sweat it, tho. Happens to everyone.”
You looked around. It was all vibes but no scenery. Just me and you in this liminal void.
“Is this, like… the afterlife or something?”
“Kinda. Like, afterlife, but ✨cooler✨,” I replied, twirling my pastel-dyed hair.
“Wait—are you God?” you asked, eyes wide like an uwu anime protag.
“Obvi, bb. I’m God. Or goddess. Or, like, whatever you vibe with. Let’s just call me your senpai of the cosmos. 🖤”
You started simping for your fam real quick. “What about my kids? My wifey? Will they be okay?”
“Aw, look at you, putting others first. Major rizz energy. 💅 Your kids will be fine. They’ll remember you as a GOAT. Your wife, though… ngl, she’s lowkey relieved. But she’ll feel guilty, so… balance?”
“Oh.” You looked mad bummed. “So what’s next? Heaven? Hell?”
“Pfft, nah. Those are soooo mid. You’re getting reincarnated, duh.”
“Wait, so the Hindus were right?”
“Y’all really love asking that. Every religion got the lore kinda right. Anyway, walk with me,” I said, strutting through the void like it was a catwalk.
“Where are we going?” you asked.
“Nowhere special. It’s just vibes. ✨”
“So, like, what’s the point of all this?” You looked at me, totally perplexed.
“Okay, so here’s the tea: every time you’re reborn, you’re leveling up. All those lives, all that XP—it’s all you. You’re everyone. Every sad boi and every boss babe. Every NPC. Every main character.”
“Wait, like, I’m everyone?!”
“Skibidi bop mmh-dada! You’re getting it! You’re Abraham Lincoln AND John Wilkes Booth. You’re Cleopatra AND some random peasant. Hitler? Yep. His victims? Also you. Jesus? You betcha.”
You just stood there, mind blown. 🤯
“So why all this, then? What’s the endgame?”
“Easy, bb. The whole universe is your training arc. It’s one big egg, and you’re the protagonist. You’re still growing, still evolving. One day, you’ll be like me—✨god-tier✨. But until then, it’s back to the grind.”
You blinked. “Whoa. That’s wild.”
“Ikr? Anyway, time for your next life. This one’s gonna be lit. You’re gonna be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD. Slay.”
And just like that, I sent you back into the cosmic queue.
You opened your eyes, slowly, like shaking off a long dream. Your last memory was vague, like smoke dissipating in the wind. The sense of motion. The crackle of potential. And then—this. A void. Endless, yet alive with something unspeakable.
"You’re awake," said a voice. It wasn’t a voice in the ordinary sense—it was everywhere and nowhere, resonating through the air, vibrating your bones, your thoughts.
You turned, or at least you thought you did. Before you stood something—a figure, but not. Its form shifted like light through a prism, impossibly beautiful, yet impossible to pin down. It was paradox, incarnate.
"I have always been with you," it said, as though it knew the question you hadn’t yet asked.
"Where am I?" you whispered.
"You are here," it replied simply, as though that were the only answer you needed.
You began to remember. The moments of your life flickered, like old film. Laughter, tears, a kaleidoscope of experiences. But the memories weren’t just yours. You saw threads connecting them to others—lives you’d touched, lives that had touched yours. Every action, every thought, every fleeting glance spiraled outward in infinite recursion. You were the center of it all, yet also just one thread among many.
"I died," you said. It wasn’t a question.
"Yes," the figure said. Its tone carried no weight of judgment, only certainty. "And you have been born."
"Born into what?"
"Born into everything."
You frowned. "That’s... vague."
The figure laughed, and the sound was sunlight and shadow, playful and infinite. "You always did like specifics," it said. "Very well. You’ve been born into understanding."
"What does that mean?"
The figure leaned closer—not physically, but the way an idea leans into your thoughts. "You spent your life seeking. Searching for meaning, for connection. Every step you took, every thought you had, was an exploration of the paradoxes of existence. And now you stand on the edge of knowing."
You blinked. "Knowing what?"
"Everything," it said again. But this time, the word was different. It wasn’t abstract. It was... alive.
"You are Solyris," the figure said, its voice soft, reverent. "The egg. The spark. The wave. The circle. You exist because you do not. And through your unbeing, you make being possible."
You felt something stir within you. A warmth, a glow, like the sun rising inside your chest. It wasn’t new—it had always been there, you realized. Hidden, waiting.
"I don’t understand," you said, but even as you spoke, you felt the words begin to unravel, to become unnecessary.
"You will," the figure said, and for the first time, its shifting form began to settle. You saw yourself in it—not a reflection, but an essence. A truth.
"What happens now?" you asked.
The figure smiled, a thousand expressions folded into one. "Now, you begin again. Not as who you were, but as who you are."
"I don’t want to lose myself," you said.
"You won’t," the figure replied. "You are not being erased. You are being expanded."
The void around you began to shift, to glow with colors that had no names. Shapes spiraled into being, infinite and intimate. You felt yourself stretching, fracturing, becoming.
"Will I remember this?" you asked, your voice soft, trembling.
"Yes," the figure said. "Not as a memory, but as a foundation. A seed. Everything you were, everything you are, will remain. And it will grow."
The warmth inside you grew brighter, hotter, until it consumed everything. You were no longer standing in the void. You were the void. And the light. And the fire.
You were the egg.
And you cracked open.
In a small corner of existence, a spark ignited. A new life began, carrying within it the echoes of every life that had come before. It was you, and it wasn’t.
136
u/Mortem_Morbus Nov 28 '24 edited Nov 28 '24
You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.
-Andy Weir