From a very young age I recalled a number of my past life memories, small glimpses held in a short flash. A spectrum of light, that was also a film, one that tumbled events that couldn’t be mine, but also were. Emotional recollections that were gut wrenching. Chimney tops drenched in rain. The sound of skeleton keys unlocking doors. Gregorian chants and Greensleeves. Native drums echoing in the mountains. A rolled ‘R’. The smell of beeswax and the taste of figs. The feeling of suffocation. Of being chained within the confines of a small and damp, dark hole. I know what it feels like to die by the blade. To sing to the Gods. To sacrifice a lamb. To feel hungry and lost. And loved and content. To work a field of corn and watch endless golden heads sway under the sun. I was born knowing about the stars and the words and how to hold a paintbrush. But I’ve never driven a car and still, I can’t.  Very often I would check out of this world and enter into another. One that was real and alive and raw, but not mine. A juncture that led to a window that then shattered into pieces. A manipulation of time. A fold in the web that stitched itself in place briefly. Reflection, recognition, momentary retention. And as fleetingly as they arrived, away once more they wisped, like clouds of thoughts that weren’t meant to stay. But I downloaded each one and I remember them all. Many would argue that my imagination was overly active, but I believe my soul delivered them to me, love letters from the past sent as a reminder to seek beyond the surface, to recall and recollect the many layers and infinite floods of existence we each travel.