Long ago, a wizard toiled away in seclusion. They had devoted their entire life to the pursuits of the arcane, turning away from people, from material wealth and recognition itself.

They worked as a forgotten soul, cloistered in their dizzying tower amid numerous drooping cypress trees, so laden with moss, the surrounding morass so dense that sun barely kissed the slithering vines hidden beneath water murkier than looming rainclouds.

It wasn’t that they rejected what they turned from, no. They craved it. They wanted nothing more than to be the most powerful, the most respected, the most adored. But they were not prone to swift action. They valued their life far too much for that.

Instead, they opted for a slower, more surefire way to guarantee their eventual success. It was decided when they were in the prime of youth, and it’s their sole reason for continuing such a dreary existence in their wizened old husk of a body.

Days came and went, the wrinkles on their body deepening, their skin growing as thin as parchment and weaker than brittle grass in a dust storm.

The hairs on their head dwindled, eventually so sparse that they were outnumbered by what teeth remained in their rotten mouth. A wretched being, their body a reflection of their sundered soul, damaged by decades of isolation and all-consuming desire.

But today was a joyous day for them, expressed with laughter as much a hacking wheeze as a manic expression of victory. Their work had paid off; they achieved the secret of reversing time itself.

All their crippling years will fade; all those missed opportunities will become foregone successes. Weaving one final spell as this pitiful wretch they became, the wizard vanishes in a flash of light.

They awaken renewed and reinvigorated in a bed from their distant past, with all the knowledge of their future. So begins the first day of the wizard’s new life. Success comes quickly; fame shortly after, and they spend the coming years in bliss.

Everything goes perfectly for the wizard. How could it not? They know there is no chance of failure. For even if death comes for them now, their spell was woven indelible into their being: untimely demise merely restarts the clock.

Eventually, they do face the end: aged gracefully, surrounded by loved ones and admirers. It’s then, when they feel their last breath spilling out of lungs that can fill no more, past lips too feeble to utter anything that they realize their mistake.

When they die, they restart the clock. They go back, back to their youth. Back to start their life over, to work to gain all they have this time around. A loop made to never be broken, a spell they never saw reason to release. Not until now.

Over the years, they had learned to appreciate what they gained. To love, and to be loved. Wealth was good, but the bonds forged? It was what made life worth living.

Now, as the wizard expires, only to reawaken in the same bed all those years ago, they realize the gravity of their mistake.

They love people who no longer exist. Not really; the faces and bodies may be the same, but what are people if not the sum of their experiences? The people the wizard sees look the same, but are so very different.

It’s as if they kept living, and all the people they knew died, replaced by doppelgangers. They must persist, while everyone around them never have to know the curse of eternity.

Their third attempt at life is less glamorous. Less profitable, less fulfilling…lesser all around. The one after that is even worse. The flat circle spins, and the wizard grows ever more deranged.

People with the faces of old confidants, friends and lovers become victims; several times, their anguish is cut short by violence. Yet always, they return to a familiar bed, in a familiar room, with naught but their tormented memories carried with them.

Able to do anything, but incapable of experiencing finality. No longer truly alive, they suffer worse than any of the undead. For at least one day, the undead may be put to rest. For the mad wizard? Reality itself is their prison, their jailor themselves.

To live is to accept that one day, death will claim you—and for those of you who may be, or may know one of the undead, to accept that one day death will come back for you.

This knowledge is a blessing; with it, we can understand that every moment of life is precious. Our time is limited, therefore we should spend it on something as precious to us as our life itself.

Of course, we’re imperfect creatures. That’s why some of us may spend considerable time quaffing ale or sleeping the day away. Ultimately, we decide our own meaning. Our own reasons for being granted a brief ride on Eternity’s Wheel.