“say its true there’s nothing like me and you. I’m not alone tell me you feel it too”
Do you ever have a dream where you wonder if it possible it could have been a memory of a past life?
I had one once. I even spoke fluent chinese in my dream. A pyschic confirmed I had been servant girl in Asia. That I loved walking on the beaches. That the red I always saw in my dreams, was the color of the clothes I would wear.
I would do tea ceremonies. Mostly I was a serving girl.
I had a serious ankle injury that led to my death. It wasnt a pleasant death. A violent death. That any pain I had in my ankles, wrists and head had to do with my dying in my past lives.
Most times I would wake up singing in fluent french, even though I know french at kindergarten level.
that is kind of scary isnt it?
Last night, I had a dream.
It was romantic as it was heartbreaking.
I believe it was in the 1920′s or perhaps some other time period. I was the German Cultural Attache to Russia. I was a widow, whose husband recently died in a war. I had a son.
I was at a party at the German Embassy in Russia, enjoying myself. When I saw him. He was far older than myself. He was so handsome. His blonde hair turning silver. He was quite fit. How old he was I couldnt tell. He was mesmerizing, and it was as if everything inside me knew we were destined to be together. (he looked like an older Emile)
Our eyes met.
He came over, and he spoke with perfect english. Which was strange if he was russian, and I was german. He introduced himself. (I never knew his name in the dream) He never told me who he really was. I had assumed he was a diplomat like myself.
We spent the entire night dancing, eating, drinking wine and vodka. He took me home. Ask if he could see me again.
We spent time together on his terms, he enjoyed playing time with my son.
Then one night he asked me to marry him. I said yes. We made love that night. It was beautiful.
One morning, my son came running into the room, excited. “Its Papa in the newspaper!” he cried. My son called my lover Papa, which he didnt mind. He had seemed thrilled by it.
I took the paper from my boy, and opened it. All color drained from my face.
“The Prime Minister of Russia in a scandalous Affair with German Cultural Attache!” I whispered. There were pictures of us walking in the park with my son, kissing under the tree. Even of me in my bedroom in a form of undress.
“On the eve of war, the Prime Minister is caught with one of his dalliances. Can we trust him to lead us, while he scratches his itch with his whore.”
the paper fell from my fingers. He was the Prime Minister? How could he have hid this from all this time? How could I have not known? How could I have been so stupid?
“mama what is a whore?” my son asked.
I patted his head, “Its an adult word,” I choked. “Go finish your breakfast.”
I heard him leave the room, and I sat down and cried.
I heard my name being called.
It was him. I wiped my eyes frantically. Grabbing my shawl, I wrapped it around my shoulders and walked to the window.
He was pushing the gates open, when my groundsmen stopped him. I could hear their heated words.
As if he sensed my gaze, he lifted his head. He found me watching him from the window. There was so much despair, anger and love in his eyes. “Let me explain. Please. I can explain.” he shouted.
I fumbled with the window latch, and shoved the window open. “You lied to me.” I cried.
“I assumed you knew who I was. When I realised you didnt, I just couldnt tell you. It felt so right. You were the only one who didnt demand my time, didnt demand things of me. You accepted me. You loved me. There wasnt pressure. Every second that passed I knew you were my home, my heart.”
I shook my head. “How could you let this happen?” I threw the paper at him. “you let them take those pictures! My son will think I am your whore!” i let out a sob. “he will hear people talk!”
And that is when I woke up.
All day the image of myself at the window, with him below kept haunting me. “My son will think I am your whore.”
My despair at having my son thinking of me was devastating.
However, I believe in real life I would think I wouldnt care what people thought. If I was in love. Their opinions wouldnt matter to me. As long as my son was happy, I was happy. They could fuck themselves.
That is how I knew I was in different time period. My preoccupation with people’s perception of me. As a widow, I would have had more freedom than a single woman. If I was a man’s mistress, it wouldnt have matter.