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I once had a dream that I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was someone else. I was happy about that, because I had hated my other life so much that I was happy to leave it. I spent years in this life. An entire lifetime. There are things I now remember that just seem amazing. This other life, it was perfect. I was perfect. Everybody liked me, and I lived in harmony with the rest of the world. That was how it was, and I loved it. This other person, it was me, but it wasn’t. I seemed to have a new personality. A new start. I remembered my other life, but it just seemed like that: a memory, like an old movie that you’ve watched a million times, so that you know the characters almost as well as you know yourself. My new person was great. I could do all the things I had just dreamed of doing in my other life. Of course I knew that something would eventually go wrong, I mean, nothing’s perfect, but I was wrong. It was perfect. Until it happened. I was old in my life, and I don’t really remember dying, but I guess that’s what must have happened.

On my way back to my real life, I thought about all the people I was leaving behind in my perfect world. My friends, family, my children, did I mention I had children? They were perfect. And now I miss them, but it seems that I can hardly remember them. The whole thing is faded. Disappearing. I don’t even remember large parts of my life. When I got back to my real life, I realised that my life had been a dream. And that whole dream, hadn’t even been one. Just a thought, a hope. . . And it was over. Over. Every now and then, I remember something wonderful that happened in my life, and what I learned in it. I’ve tried to go back to it, but of course that can’t happen. I don’t know why, I just couldn’t go back to that world that I remember. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard to return to that life. But I died there. And that is why I can’t go back. I should be able to, of course, because it was just a thought, and I can control my thoughts, but I can’t. A mind block. A wall. More like a box, I suppose, holding my mind in this horrid place that I’ve come to call home. I only live twice. Since my return, I’ve been wondering, hoping, that this life is just like my other one, and that when I die I’ll go somewhere else, and remember this life and the one before, and get another start, and live again. But this life isn’t like my other one. Of course not. That was just a thought, hope, whatever. And all the people there were imaginary people, and so was I, because I can’t be like I was in that dream. Never again.

The one thing I do really remember from my life, is walking with my friend in a beautiful park, and she said, “Promise you’ll never forget me,” and I promised her that I never would, but now, I don’t even remember her name, or why she said that. And I’m terrified that she will come and tell me that I never deserved to be her friend if I forgot so quickly. And I wouldn’t blame her. I still think about it, hope, dream about it. And that I’ll someday return there. If I could do it again, I would. But I can’t. And I never will. I like to think that someday, the world that I am forced to live in, will be the life I speak of . . .
The life I knew so well . . .
The life I still hope for to this day . . .
The life I dream of . . .

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