I have lived more than a thousand years. I have died countless times. I forgot precisely how many times. My memory is an extraordinary thing, but it is not perfect. I am human.
The early lives blur a bit. The arc of your soul follows the pattern of each of your lives. It is macrocosmic. There was my childhood. There have been many childhoods. And even in the early part of my soul I reached adulthood many times. These days, in every one of my infancies, the memory comes faster. We go through the motions. We look oddly at the world around us.
We remember.
I say ‘we’ and I mean mysef, my soul, my selves, my many lives. I say ‘we’ and I also mean the other ones like me who have the Memory, the conscious record of experience on this earth that survives every death. There aren’t many, I know. Maybe one in a century, one born out of millions. We find one another rarely, but believe me, there are others. At least one of them has a memory far more extraordinary than mine.
I have been born and died many times in many places. The space between them is the same. I wasn’t on Nova to have a Day of Reading. I never saw the glory that was Assam. I never bowed to any of the first Seven. At that time I was scratching out a crop in Bena Rikashi, speaking a dialect unintelligible to the villages north and south. Only the Gods and the Demons of this universe can be counted on for all the thrilling parts. The great hits of history go along without the notice of most. I read about them in books like everybody else.
Sometimes I feel more akin to houses and trees than to my fellow human beings. I stand around watching the waves of people come and go. Their lives are short, but mine is long. Somtimes I imagine myself as a post driven into the ocean’s edge.
I’ve never had a child, and I’ve never gotten old. I don’t know why. I have seen beauty in countless things. I have fallen in love, and she is the one who endures. I killed her once and died for her many times and I still have nothing to show for it. I always search for her; I always remember her. I carry the hope that someday she will remember me…

His appearance was so intriguing but at the same time so incredibly ordinairy. His honeyblond locks swept aside like the long dry summer grass in the wind. A jawline so sharp you could cut your fingers on them, like a dagger. He was tall. But not taller than most. And a nose as straigt as the pillars of the temples on Puffoon. And yes the tattoos in his skin and the piercings through his flesh were noticable. Fascinating even, for the curious eye. But the most unordinary and intriguing in his whole appearance were those eyes. Brown en layered like the earth and stone all of humanity walked on. With long dark lashes like the trees sprouting to the heavens. Underneat two dark untamed eyebrows. Almost playful.

Those eyes were filled with secrets and story's, with visions and ventures, with hope and lack thereof. They could've been the eyes of a young woman. Fair and virtuous. At the start of a exciting and fulfilling life. Or those of an elderly man. Wise and worn-out. At the end of it all. Nothing left to see and nothing left to learn. With a completely lived life behind them. Looking into those eyes could fill your heart with the greatest joy and love or lay bare your deepest pain and sadness. Like a mirror to the soul of all humanity. Those eyes always knew. But never told you what they knew. Because no soul was worth the sacred demise of humanity. And no soul could look into the eyes of humanity itself.