Return

I have died again.

The other deaths blur at the edges, faint and ghostlike, but I feel them inside me. Like a limb that has slept too long, prickling back to life. A forgotten ache waking up. Already, this one too begins to dissolve, slipping through my grasp like water through fingers. I never remember them for long.

I am back in the in-between.

The place that is both hollow and overflowing. A yawning emptiness vast enough to swallow me whole, pressure great enough to crack me open. And yet, it cradles me. It is warm here. It is kind.

I float in a stillness that has no time. No ticking, no turning. Only suspension. And within me, a question.

Do I wish to return?

I consider. How long did I ponder, the other times? Hours? Centuries? What is the measure of waiting in a place where time has no meaning? I only know this: I have always chosen to go back.

And when I do, I return to suffering.

To injustice woven into the bones of the world. To corporations that strangle rivers and poison skies, who hollow out the soil until nothing remains, all for profit. I return to the cruelty of power unchecked, of selfishness so corrosive it stings the eyes.

And always, the hatred. It is sharp. Loud. Relentless. Everyone thinks they’re doing the right thing, don’t they?

I was small there. Small against the tide. I could not stop it, could not make a difference.

Here, I would not have to worry anymore. Not about any of it.

And yet.

Every life is different. The world never stops moving. Even cruelty shifts, crumbles and dies. Languages twist into new music. Beliefs evolve. The soil, even when stripped, can still be sown again eventually. Sometimes the dreamers prevail. Sometimes, the voices of the tender-hearted break through the static, and someone with power listens. Sometimes I change something.

It is human to care. I am still human enough to care.

If I stay, I will not feel the trees. I will not feel the wind cupping my cheek, or breathe the rich smell of earth after rain. I will not hear the air crackling with thunder’s aftertaste, or the laughter of someone who truly understands me.

I will not taste the imperfect glory of a meal made from whatever scraps the fridge offered, or experience the comfort of a hot cup of coffee at dawn. I will not feel the weight of a dog’s damp nose against my skin, or the spark of creation when inspiration strikes. I will not be wrapped in a blanket still warm from the dryer, or sit among flowers simply existing in their brightness. I will not give love. I will not receive it.

I would miss that.

So I go back.

I always do.