You were on your way home when the unexpected happened; you died in a car accident. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it was fatal. The medics did their best, but your body was too shattered to save. Trust me, it was better this way. And then, you met me.

You looked around, bewildered. “What happened? Where am I?” you asked.

“You died,” I said plainly. No sugarcoating needed. The accident with the truck, it was fatal. Yes, you died. But don’t stress about it; everyone does.

You observed the empty space around you and asked, “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I responded.

“Are you God?” you questioned.

“Yes, I’m God,” I replied.

Your thoughts immediately went to your family. “What about my kids? My wife? Will they be alright?” you asked, showing your concern.

“They’ll be fine,” I reassured you. Your kids will remember you fondly, and your wife, though she will cry, will also feel secretly relieved. If it’s any comfort, she will feel very guilty for feeling that way since your marriage was falling apart.

“Oh,” was all you could manage. “So what happens now? Heaven or Hell?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah, so the Hindus were right!” you exclaimed.

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said, inviting you to walk with me.

As we strolled through the void, you wondered, “What’s the point then? When I get reborn, I’ll just be a baby, right? Everything I did in this life won’t matter?”

“Not exactly,” I explained. “You carry with you all the knowledge and experiences from your past lives, even if you don’t remember them now.”

I paused and put my hands on your shoulders. “Your soul is magnificent and vast. A human mind can only hold a small part of it. It’s like dipping a finger into water to test its temperature; you only use a tiny part of yourself in a human life.”

“If we stayed here long enough, you’d start recalling everything. But there’s no point in that between lives,” I continued.

“How many times have I been reincarnated?” you asked.

“Oh, countless times! Into countless different lives,” I answered. “Next, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 A.D.”

“Wait, what? You’re sending me back in time?” you said, incredulous.

“Time, as you know it, exists only in your universe,” I explained. “Things are different where I come from.”

“And where do you come from?” you asked.

“Somewhere else. There are others like me, but you wouldn’t understand yet,” I said.

“Oh,” you replied, a bit let down. “But if I get reincarnated at different times, could I have met myself?”

“Sure, it happens all the time. And with each life only aware of its own span, you wouldn’t even realize it.”

“So, what’s the point of all this?” you asked, feeling overwhelmed.

“The meaning of life, why I made the universe, is for you to mature,” I said.

“Mankind?” you asked.

“No, just you. I made the whole universe for you to grow and mature,” I clarified.

“But what about everyone else?” you wondered.

“There is no one else. In this universe, it’s just you and me,” I said.

You stared blankly. “You mean I’m everyone?”

“Now you’re getting it. Every human who ever lived. Or who will ever live,” I confirmed.

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?” you asked. “And John Wilkes Booth too,” I replied.

“I’m Hitler?” you said, appalled. “And the millions he killed,” I added.

“Jesus?” you asked. “And everyone who followed Him,” I said.

You fell silent, absorbing the enormity of it all. Every act of kindness, every form of suffering—it was all you.

“Why?” you finally asked. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child,” I said.

“Wow,” you whispered, astonished. “You mean I’m a God?”

“No, not yet. You’re a fetus, still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life, you will have matured enough to be born,” I replied.

“So, the whole universe… it’s just… an egg!” you said.

“Exactly. Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life,” I said, sending you on your way.