Humiliation Did Beat

I was left confused after the first dream of what would be a series of dreams detailing what I concluded later may have been memories of a past life.

I haven’t researched reincarnation in depth. I have only basic knowledge of the subject. Surface skimming topics related to reincarnation I’ve read and listened to videos about timelines and that there aren’t past lives but different timelines all occurring at once.

That theory is hard to digest for me. As I see my current reality as my life. Have I lived other lives? I don’t have proof of that. I think it is possible. Perhaps different timelines do indeed exist. For me personally, it is more conceivable that there are past lives instead of many lives at once. I will adhere to that concept for now.

As I present each dream this moment forward, I will refer to them as past life memories.

Let the dream begin...

With nervous anticipation, he left the marketplace scanning ahead the scenery. Each arm grasping a bag full of fresh vegetables and baked bread. One foot leaves the wooden porch entrance onto the dirt street.

The dust rises lifting midway in air from activity as the sun glitters amongst the soft haze. Not far away in the middle of the dirt street stood a solider. The gravel crunched with each step. Just as his heart did beat faster as he came closer. He yearned to cross, finish and find his way onto the soft grass that he could see ahead past the street.

With each step, the marketplace became the backdrop. The solider stood between him and the safety of the green grass that led back home. Rough was the gravel. Stifling was the dust. Glaring was the sun. Anticipation began to sweat into his quicker, beating heart.

The solider’s eyes focused. Stopping him, the solider demands a halt first with his hand and then the rifle.

STOP!

Disgust breathed as the solider moved closer to him. It was in his eyes. The lack of a beating heart. The air of superiority. The execution of cruelty. His nostrils flared, rustling of the uniform, wet neck not from anticipation but the sun’s glare.

Demanding, his leathery hands, with dirt outlined nails, rifle pointed downward momentarily, the solider shuffled each of the bags contents. Peering to see what had been bought, the soldier scoffed, then violently pushed, one bag, and then the other.

Bouncing onto the dirt surface, rattling the gravel, food strewn about. Both bags, some contents now emptied, rested now. Slow motion. Brewing. The anger. The humiliation. Raising a black boot. Before the first strike. The backdrop of the marketplace. There stood a woman. She watched. Heart beating. The sympathy drenched her face. Each blonde curl hung with a testament. Helpless she remained etched in the marketplace backdrop.

The solider’s black, shiny boot hit the first bag, crushing. Yearning for the green grass ahead, the man could only watch. Anger. Humiliation. Hopelessness raided him. He felt so small. Defenseless.

The solider lost interest after stomping the second bag. As if it had never happened, the scenery carried on. The man grabbed what had escaped the stomped bags. Cradled against his chest all colors traced in dirt, rested the vegetables that survived. Deeply, his heart’s drum beat of humiliation. Now, he carried on. With each footstep forward, the beat slowed, softened as his feet hit the grass for home.