Do you know how many times I have died?

137.

On 137 occasions, I have felt my life fade away. For 137 futile attempts, I have fought for one more moment and failed.

For 137 lives, I have witnessed beauty in its rawest form and I have witnessed horrible moments and their goriest details.

To some, this may seem supernatural. To me, it's a regular occurrence.

I have lived lives of monotony. Others of sheer adventure. Many somewhere in between.

I have seen the sun set in Rome and the tide wash in on Waikiki. I've seen massive crowds struggle to see a work of art and intimate moments with a child's prized hand-painting.

I've listened to a solo violinist make her strings sing the saddest of songs and I've listened to groups of friends gossip about that one boy in class.

I vividly remember the times where I never felt more alive and yet, none of this ever prepares me for the point I slip away.

One might think after 32 times of perishing, the feeling might grow familiar. Maybe after 78, you wouldn't even notice it anymore.

136 times could never have prepared me for the 137th moment.

Luckily, it's never been painful. Every time it's been the same process. More and more, my being as a whole grows tired. The more weary I become, the more I fight to stay alive. But, the more I fight to stay alive, the more weary I become. The process is a never-ending spiral and just like now, I can feel it coming to yet another end.

A familiar hand grasps on to me, willing me to stay alive. But in the end, her efforts are worthless. For the 138th time, I feel myself fade away and everything goes dark…

The girl looked down, clearly distraught. Her friend looked over.

"What happened?" the friend asked.

The girl shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment of silence. She let out a long sigh and then looked back up to answer.

"I think my damn phone just died again."