I was born immortal. As a child, this seemed especially obvious, so I took full advantage — recklessly, joyfully. I’d race down steep hills on my bicycle, scale every tree within reach, and swing fearlessly from all the rope swings in our village. I’d plunge daringly from cliffs into rivers, and leap soldier-style into snowbanks from garage roofs. Scraped knees, split eyebrows, even a cracked skull — each injury only reinforced my belief in my superhuman nature.

By school age, I still had a thousand lives left to spend. And I was determined to use every single one. I drew and took photographs. Played guitar and acted on stage. I skied, trained in karate, wrote detective stories, and even dabbled in programming. Each book I read pulled me deep inside its pages; alongside favorite characters, I became a reporter unraveling corporate conspiracies, a detective solving the heist of the century. I galloped across the Wild West with Native Americans and circumnavigated the globe on my own dragon. Every day was another life, another persona to explore.

University was when things began slipping through my fingers. Bouncing between majors, dubious passions, and unrequited loves, I stayed truly myself only in my mind, where everything remained possible. But reality was a different story. Each choice made meant another future forever sealed off, leaving behind the bitter taste of dreams unfulfilled — mathematician never realized, cybernetics expert never formed, comedian never laughed.

That’s when, standing over the lifeless body of my last dragon, I stumbled upon my calling. Advertising revealed itself as humanity’s greatest discipline. Mastering it meant understanding how people think, what moves them, and how their motivations could be shaped. These insights spilled into my own life. Every new client brought with them a glimpse into another world — bread-making, furniture crafting, bubble-gum manufacturing. Knowledge sharpened awareness. I dove deep into work, trading the gap of formal education for relentless effort.

Following the unwritten law of ten thousand hours, my career soared upward. Job titles, companies, responsibilities — they all changed, each phase bringing inspiration, connections, and fresh duties. I dove into this professional lake just as boldly as I’d once jumped into the village pond. Soldier-style. Completely. Work became life itself — ambitious goals, relentless hustle, successes I barely paused to savor. You could leave the office on time; you could even stop going altogether. But walking away from the idea that might just be your next big thing? Practically impossible.

A couple of years back, I lost another life. A brief vacation promised relief from the rat race. Just before landing, our plane flew into a storm cloud. The turbulence was so violent that when we touched down, in an entirely different airport, not a single atheist remained onboard. “My guardian angel…” — grandma’s prayer returned to me. They say facing death changes how people see life. Not me, though. I still had two lives left: the real, exhausting one, grinding daily to climb higher; and the happy one, surely waiting around the corner. A bit more salary. A new apartment. Moving to another country. Then I’d finally live.

Now I’m sitting on the floor of an empty apartment. Satisfied with another victory. Hollowed by its cost. My head splits open. Consciousness fractures in two. One half expands endlessly, engulfing everything, blazing until it’s painful to watch. It drifts into space, exploding in the icy void of another galaxy, leaving absolute emptiness behind. The other half sees a falling star and makes a wish.

I sit on the floor in my empty apartment and smile. Only one life left, my last. There is no “later” anymore. Everything I do today is my life itself. I put the kettle on the stove. Slowly, sip by sip, I savor a cup of bitter, bracing coffee on the balcony, feeling its warmth mingle with the piercing freshness of an autumn evening. I pick up the leash and head out to walk the dog.