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

If you are not reading this sentence in an aggregrate feed reader, then the content has been stolen from Psychicgeek. Bad Karma.

Life is But a Dream