Over the sea and far away
I dreamed I was centuries old and somhow amused by the fact that for some obscure reason I had not remembered who I was in my last lifetime, but it was a melancholy sort of amusement. The way you are sometimes amused by childhood memories; both a bit of longing and revulsion for a simpler state of mind, remembering the kind of really pure happiness that usually comes a lot easier to the ignorant. I was a rather dizzying mixture of sad and happy and everything just felt incredibly deep, literary, like I could just fall into myself forever and never notice I had left the outside world because there would be the crystal-clear memories of a hundred lifetimes folded up within me somhow.
I am not sure where I was. It was a large, open library with trees growing right through the roof and had a very beautiful, airy architecture. At that moment I remembered it was Christmas that day on one calendar I had lived by at a time, and tried to translate the term to what apparantly was my native language. It sounded like "Kebulon" in it. I missed people I had known very well who had loved celebrating it. I did not miss the feast itself, because I have never truly celebrated it and apparently still wouldn't even if I were over a 1000 years old. It has never really been mine. But I did miss the people connected to it. It was, however, a distant kind of missing, nostalgic almost, like something a very long time in the past already. More like a scar than a wound.
Outside everything was green and living. Not a brown leaf on the ground. Even the light had a slightly green tinge to it at times, though it was mostly that unique, very fresh golden shade you sometimes see at 17:00 during the first weeks of October, somehow lasting throughout the neverending day, the sound of the sea never far away.
I am not sure where I was. It was a large, open library with trees growing right through the roof and had a very beautiful, airy architecture. At that moment I remembered it was Christmas that day on one calendar I had lived by at a time, and tried to translate the term to what apparantly was my native language. It sounded like "Kebulon" in it. I missed people I had known very well who had loved celebrating it. I did not miss the feast itself, because I have never truly celebrated it and apparently still wouldn't even if I were over a 1000 years old. It has never really been mine. But I did miss the people connected to it. It was, however, a distant kind of missing, nostalgic almost, like something a very long time in the past already. More like a scar than a wound.
Outside everything was green and living. Not a brown leaf on the ground. Even the light had a slightly green tinge to it at times, though it was mostly that unique, very fresh golden shade you sometimes see at 17:00 during the first weeks of October, somehow lasting throughout the neverending day, the sound of the sea never far away.