The Egg by Andy Weir
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You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly
remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a
wife and two children. It was a painless death.
The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail.
Your body was so utterly shattered you were better
off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where
am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in
mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone
dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness.
Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is
this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you God?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died
and your main concern is for your family. That’s good
stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I
didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or
possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure,
maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the
almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids
will remember you as perfect in every way. They
didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife
will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved.
To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any
consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling
relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go
to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said.
“Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the
void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to
walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When
I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So
all my experiences and everything I did in this life
won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the
knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You
just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the
shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful,
and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human
mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are.
It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see
if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into
the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve
gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years,
so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of
your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for
long enough, you’d start remembering everything.
But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated,
then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different
lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese
peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending
me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it,
only exists in your universe. Things are different
where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from
somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others
like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like
there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I
get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have
interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both
lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even
know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking
me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little
stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you
persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life,
the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to
mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for
you. With each new life you grow and mature and
become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe,
there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people
on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a
congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said,
“you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness
you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy
and sad moment ever experienced by any human
was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me.
Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind.
You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m
a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still
growing. Once you’ve lived every human life
throughout all time, you will have grown enough to
be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to
move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.
“The Egg” - Andy Weir
