Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Do you believe in reincarnation?

Sometimes when I'm desperately unhappy, I try to concentrate on where it stems from.

Because most of the time, my feelings of frustration and emptiness don't directly come from the obvious reasons in my life, such as lack of money, lack of job, and loss of friendships.

There are indescribable feelings of pain I've been having for pretty much my entire life.

And the closer I look, the more I realize I simply don't feel like I belong in my generation. I feel like a stranger among people my own age. And as the years go by, I feel the distance increasing.

It's like I don't relate to anyone anymore. It's confusing.

As long as I can remember, I have always felt like I belonged to another generation. Not the glamorous 1920s, or something exotic like Cleopatra-era Egypt. But more like merely 40 years ago. It is such a strong feeling, that sometimes it overwhelms me.

I don't think my feelings are unjustified either.

When I was three years old, in 1987, an incident occurred that my parents still bring up to this day.

I used to talk incessantly about a life which didn't involve them. I told stories and spouted names that were so detailed, my parents were stunned. It got to the point, where it was all I could talk about. My parents were completely freaked out. I was like something out of a horror movie, going on and on about stuff that had happened to me, and how I missed certain people.

My parents took me to several child psychiatrists. Finally, the last one they took me to gave them an explanation that the others had been too embarrassed to bring up: reincarnation. He told my parents that he truly believed I was remembering incidents and people from my past life.

Well, when I turned four, my stories started to dwindle. And by the time I reached five, they were gone.

And now, while I remember tossing and turning in bed, at three years old, remembering things with clarity, I don't remember what they were. I don't remember incidents, or places, or faces, or names.

The stories my parents repeat to me now, don't mean anything to me anymore. They don't jog any memory or feeling.

I will most likely never know what I had been talking about.

But sometimes when I'm walking outside, and the sky is a dreary gray, and the wind is blowing through my hair, and all the elements add up, my heart does a little jump. I feel a sharp tinge of nostalgia.

And then I'm left feeling alone.

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