[ WP ] You are functionally immortal : you can die but instantly come back to life . Over the many , many years you 've become jaded and bored , and now dying is the only thing that gives you any sort of rush anymore . You 're about to attempt your most elaborate and thrilling death yet .


 
 No amount of variation can surprise me. No new instrument can disguise the fact that I know this song better than I know myself. I can easily discern where each day is heading, like watching a bad movie with a poorly written plot. I have found this axiom to be at play, intertwined in my lifespans of animation. My yearning is for excitement, for the new. But where is it? I dread that I have emptied life's hoarde of delights. I enter that treasure chamber again and again each day, scraping at the corners for a scrap that may remain. I am not strong enough to face the possibility that the hoarde is empty. 
 
 
 At first, new delights were enough to keep the heart's burning away from my thoughts. I reasoned that enough music would drown the quiet whispers inside of me so that I could dance, and for a while it worked. I feasted with Pharaoh Amenhotep, I wept with Babylon's fall, Rome presented me with her ecstasies and reverence for order, The Renaissance fit me well, the enlightenment satisfied my appetite for learning, but today I find the music has slipped into the background, leaving me alone with my unfulfilled appetites. From century to century, all moments gradually turned predictable and repulsive, like watching the same show on netflix one hundred times. 
 
 
 It has taken many lifespans for me to realize the truth that is often quickly appreciated among those prone to religion: Nothing that exists inside this universe can cool the incessant burning inside me. 
 
 
 I strain my weary eyes in search of it, but all colors have grown dull and gray and all contrast has faded into machine-like predictability. My hands have become numb and void of sensation. My heart thirsts and grinds like an engine deprived of oil. I plead for my heart to wait another moment until I find something for it to drink from, but it churns in rebellion against my command. Jumping into a cold fresh river has no more of a jolt than walking from the living room to the kitchen. 
 
 
 I mentioned my desire for excitement, but there is another desire that is equally denied by this world. Part of me longs for rest. I seek an anchor, something forever familiar. Instead, everything shifts like a rag fluttering in the wind. Mountains become valleys, and valleys become mountains. Cities climb toward the sun, and then they are swept away by the tide, the process wholly indifferent to what was accomplished. Even in extreme predictability, nothing is stable. I have forgotten the sensation of *cozy*. 
 
 
 Initially, I avoided death. the painful process was only followed by challenges of finding another identity. But life became maddening, like the dripping of a broken faucet. Death offered excitement, or at least a break from the incessant rhythms of life. Death held the promise of the *new*, and so I have followed death into a morbid fixation on freedom from this prison. I obsessed more and more over bizarre ways of dying, finding myself bound to a limited number of possibilities yet again. Ultimately death could not deliver it's promises. I can hardly remember if I am even conscious when I am dead. Maybe I am simply *off*, like a light switch. I do n't even care. The *ribs of my soul*, as it were, grip skin and testify to my starvation. 
 
 
 If this material universe is all there is, I want out. If I can not leave this stage without an eternity of encores, perhaps I can postpone my next entrance. These chains are wrapped across my body well, a testimony to the level of effort I have applied. the concrete in buckets engulf not only my feet but large portions of my legs. There was a time when I could refer to this state as *uncomfortable*, but sensation left me long ago. once I roll of this rented rowboat, my deepest longing is that I am never found again. 

