Remember that truck while riding your motorbike which came so close you smelled the diesel? It crushed you. Somewhere. Your bones snapped. But here you are, heart still kicking.

Remember that COVID fever so bad that burned you up, lungs choking on your own breath? It killed you. Your body withered, alone in a hospital bed. But you blinked, and you’re standing, shivering, alive.

Remember that night you couldn’t take it—gun in your head, finger on the trigger? You pulled it. Brains on the wall. Your mom screamed. But you woke up, gun gone, same shitty room.

The thing is You die every time. You feel it—ribs breaking, skull splitting, heart stopping. Phantom pain that never fades. Then you jump. New universe. New you. Old misery.

Your friends, your family—they cremate you in those worlds you leave. You don’t see their tears, but you hear their sobs in your dreams. They’re ghosts in your head now.

In 150 years, you’ll be a fucking relic. Oldest bastard alive. In a thousand, a legend. Ten thousand, a cursed god, spitting in the face of death.

You never die. You just carry every death with you. So quit whining. You’re the god of this endless shitshow. Live it. Bleed it. Own it.