Birthmarks

If it’s true that birthmarks tell me where I died in my past lives, shouldn’t they be called deathmarks? And what will happen in my millionth life? Will I be flesh or will I be just scattered spots of all my sufferings? And when I see a baby born without ridges or dents, is that a first birth? A first life? But when I examine myself, I cannot remember what I was born with and what had piled on over the years. How many birthmarks can I have before I die infinitely? How can our battered bodies endure so many deaths? Can a babe be older than the two hundred year old? I think so, if they’ve been through so many reincarnations that they cannot count them all. Is there where wisdom comes from? The ends and the beginnings? And what happens when your birthmarks become your deathscars? Does your soul get ripped apart by the echoes of your last breath? Maybe this is where cynicism and sadness comes from — from the bullet wounds and the hanged nooses, from the broken hearts and the sounds of jutted starts. My hands trace my body and try to count all my breaths. How many parents and children have I had? How many mistakes have ruined the world for me? Was I someone famous? Or was I the beggar on the streets? How many people have I loved and how many people have I lost?And the only mark on me is in my mind, as I ask the same question over and over again: how can our battered souls endure so many lives?