Twenty Minutes

Every twenty minutes I die. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Every twenty-one minutes, I’m born again.

It was confusing, at first. Frustrating. I mean, who wants to live a life in twenty minutes? I spent my entire life on the toilet once. That was actually pretty fun. Well, no, not fun, that’s not the right word. But I’ve had worse.

This one time, I was born directly in the path of a bus. Spent the rest of my life in excruciating agony. I was born in a tiger cage once, too. That ended pretty much the same way.

The problem is, I’m continually reincarnated as myself. I’d much rather come back as someone famous or someone rich. Or a butterfly. But it’s always me.

I assume it’s some kind of punishment. I must have done something terrible to someone at some point. I must still be paying for it. But if I did something in an earlier go-round, I’d remember. I mean, I’d have to. I’m me. Perpetually. At least, as far back as I can remember, anyway. Before that, though, who can say.

Like I said, it gets confusing.

I thought I had it figured out once. I got my bearings, figured out who I was right quick and dove straight into the issue. Problem was, it took a full twenty minutes to get to the bottom of it. And what I needed was underneath that. Maybe if I lived a little faster.

I came close one other time, too. But then this redhead walked by and… well, that was a good twenty minutes, to say the least.

It’s not all bad. I can fall in love fifty times a day. I’m not really afraid of death. Don’t really need to worry about getting addicted to anything. I can discover how adorable a kitten is, or how delicious steaks are, over and over.

I do seem to come back older each time, though. Never quite figured that out. Not a lot older, mind you, just minutes, hours, maybe. Over the course of a few hundred lives I’ll notice a wrinkle or a scar, something to remind me that I’ve done all this before. Something to tell me I’m about to do it all over again.