I pretty much have always felt that reincarnation was a viable option. I once did a past life regression which sewed that one up for me. It was very real, and not terribly glamourous. I was a man who treated his wife like a servant. A financially rich man, but spiritually bankrupt. I smelled the odors, I heard the trees rustle in the breeze, but I had enough of the past life visits thankyouverymuch. It did, however, explain my fascination with rural, 18th century Japan. One that my mom shared with me.
A series of recurring dreams at the age of five set this mindset in motion. In the dreams, I was not five, but eight years old, and had different coloured hair, but I knew it was me.
I was falling down a well. The well was lined with bricks. I could see the seepage from between the bricks. I could see moss. I could smell the earth and water. I died at the bottom, each and every time. And then I wet the bed.
I can remember the doctor’s visits about the bedwetting, the theories that I was too lazy to wake up. I can remember my mother being baffled because I was so smart and toilet trained so easily.
Nobody asked me if I had fallen down a well. Wouldn’t you have wet the bed if you had fallen down a well? Seemed perfectly logical to me.
The only explanation for this recurring dream where I was different yet still me is that I actually died that way in another lifetime. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
Pictured below: A well-falling bedwetter still puts an arm around a friend