Untitled (127 words) – written 5/27/2017

His face was a mask. Yet every one for a thousand years had been as much.

Ever since his first death, none of the other bodies his soul had worn were more than containers. But that never stopped him from living.

Centuries of lives had become a blur, and with each passing year the passions that had defined him began to fade until his soul was nearly as empty as the bodies that carried it.

Yet he lived.

And, though any day would be like any other, he took comfort in the fact that his mundane life would keep him one step ahead of death.

It was a small price to pay for life – even if his face was a mask for the rest of eternity.