To my recollection, the first time I died went like this: I was 20 and angry with everyone in my world. Not just my world, The world. Everyone was selfish. We were destroying our planet and I, I didn’t belong on it, in it, to begin with. I was not enough. Therefor nothing was enough for me. Square peg meet round hole. I wished for it all to end, but was too cowardly to end it. Then, when I was 20, I began having severe, crippling headaches. To my knowledge there was nothing new about this. This pain was just a part of the world I knew. Life was merciless. I rode the pain as though it were inevitable. If there was a god, it hated me. But there wasn’t a god. There was nothing to save me. I deserved the pain. I would’ve caused it to myself if I valued any sense of justice. But I didn’t. I took for myself, because the world took for themselves. There was no charity without the expect of some kind of return, be it in this life or some made-up next, no altruism. I was content with riding out this life of pain. It was my obligation to my mother than drove me to the family physician and then the MRI lab. When the doctor gave me my results the next day, I responded with an enthusiastic “Yes!”. Then doctors and nurses. war at night. A spaceship. And I was reborn at the age of twenty with the understanding that the world was what I made it.