# Checkpoint

By [0xAnomalia](https://paragraph.com/@0xanomalia) · 2023-02-22

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![](https://storage.googleapis.com/papyrus_images/294ff83ed4f062ea7a166eb75b55ac14c3433c9352c6708a8c3ff5c6fd518a3c.png)

I always come back _here_, on _this_ exact same spot - and by _here_ I don’t mean the place only.

I always come back _here_, on _this_ exact same spot.

_This_ same instance of space, of time and of whatever other planes of existence there may be. November 28th, 1996, 10:12 am, Thanksgiving morning - _this_.

Yes, in some ways, what brings me into _this_ is traveling through time, but I feel that there is something more - something more complex, more confusing, more bizarre and more nauseating that I think I’ll never get the science of coming to _this_ right.

So, I simply call _this_ checkpoint… my checkpoint.

Like in a game, a point where you always go back to when you die - a place where you respawn.

I’m well aware of this endless loop that I’m in - aware, but not in control. All I know is whenever I am facing a great distress, the sort of life and death situations, I will hear a _‘click’_ - an almost insignificant sound, like a switch being turned on - _‘click’_, after that, complete darkness would quickly creep in, about a quarter of a second, like a _blink_. _Click_ then _blink_. The whole routine happens really fast. Most of the time it does not hurt, but the _‘blink’_ in particular often leaves an eerie recollection and a literal bitter aftertaste. It’s like for that one brief moment, you cease to exist - a _blink_ of nothingness.

_Click, blink, checkpoint._ Just like that, I’m back.

I’m once again here, standing inside this cold living room with a velvet rug under my red boots, wearing my only yellow dress, looking out the window, watching the morning snow cover the trees. I attend my ears to the loud TV as it plays a funny show, as if ceremoniously greeting me a _welcome back_. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever changes here, even the feel of the dust on the wooden shelf beside me and the gentle way the snow dances with the outdoor zephyr have always been the same. The show is funnym, so I always laugh. I laugh to drown my thoughts until I’m once again settled into a new, old reality.

As I said, I am well aware. I used to throw up during my first ones. I used to cry a lot because I wanted to go back to the friends and families that I left behind. But not now, not anymore… I have accepted my fate. Eventually, I started anticipating the trip. All checkpoints are the same but each life after it is unique - unique friends, loves, kids, grandkids, names, faces, voices. None have I forgotten.

I stopped counting checkpoints, but if I may approximate - it’s probably around 24, 25, 26, tops 30.

The last one is still fresh. I can still feel the cold, heavy, dry air of my quarter, the terrible pain on my gut and the sharp, rhythmic, pricking sensation on my chest whenever I inhale. I remember the feel of my bed and my odd position to find comfort as I try to catch my last remaining breath.  I know they were all there, my loves, my dearies and sweeties: my kids, grandkids, great grand kids… As my senses faded I could only hear the whispers of prayers, goodbyes, expressions of endless love and the standard call from the telescreen: _“Sunday, 4th of April 2088, 34th Subsurface Shore, Upper Crust, Welcome to Europa”._

Click. Blink.

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*Originally published on [0xAnomalia](https://paragraph.com/@0xanomalia/checkpoint)*