I would like one life for making buildings and one for making websites. One for writing at a desk with a view of a tree. One for learning to cook the three difficult things I currently avoid by calling them rustic. One for clothes: not fashion exactly, but the private theatre of getting dressed as if the day has a plot.
“The work is to stay near the things that make you curious.”
There should be a life for collecting objects with no sensible relationship to one another: a matchbox, a small bronze animal, a chair that cannot be sat on, a photograph of a room I have never entered. There should be a life for knowing the history of every street in a city, and another for never checking the map. I would like a life in which I have excellent hair, although I accept that this may require its own full-time attention.
The problem with ten lives is administrative. Ten inboxes. Ten wardrobes. Ten versions of the person who says, “I am just exploring this.” Even the fantasies contain errands. The filmmaker has to back up the footage. The architect has to answer an email about a door. The person who disappeared to learn something unnecessary still has to renew a passport.
Perhaps I do not want ten lives. Perhaps I want one life with enough doors that I do not mistake choosing a room for losing the house. I want the freedom to be serious about one thing in the morning and absurd about another in the evening. This may be less glamorous than reincarnation, but it has better filing systems.