my brain hurts like a warehouse

With each and every day, dropping out of university and going to college to get a business degree is looking better and better.

I just don't have the stamina for this anymore. I need to make the decision, and soon, so if I decide to do that, I have time to register into Algonquin.

I think maybe I should talk to my mom about it, but how do you go up to a parent who got like, 96%'s in university math and tell her "I'm dropping out to get a business degree so I can open my own store"??

...yeah. Help?

*presses her hands against the sides of her head*

*half whimper-half scream*

My brain is doing it again... that thing where I get visions.

This is a frightening thing. I am honestly and truly terrified.

Remembering how I died in past lives is not fun. Let's just say I dislike the smell of burnt flesh, the colour of blood, and having things around my neck.

I'm not going to be able to finish explaining this. It doesn't make sense unless you can see it.




I'm hoping the visions will move to the future soon, although I'm not sure I want to see that either.

Trying to explain... not sure if it makes sense...

The darkness tears at my soul. I should be terrified, but I’m not. I welcome it. I embrace this pain that was mine once. Long ago, I was someone else, and she died. Painfully.

I remember the rope, they had it around my neck, it pulled and it scratched, a harsh hemp fibre. It cut me as I was dragged down the stairs to the interrogation room.

I cried. I was innocent. I had been accused because I didn’t let go of the beliefs of my mother, and her mother, and all my fore-mothers.

I was slapped, it hurt. I tried to bite the one who held me down. They beat me. I think they might have raped me as well.

My finger nails were removed in the effort to make me confess. Confess? To what? Believing in the faith of my ancestors? If this is a crime, than I was certainly guilty.

Eventually, I did sign their little confession.

I screamed when the first torch was brought forward. I kept silent after that. It’s hard to scream much when you are choking on the smoke from the fire that devours your flesh.

I see my arms. They char and blacken and the skin becomes ash and is blown away in the wind.


Earlier, earlier. It’s less clear. I remember some sort of ceremony.

Blood.

There is a lot of blood. All of it is mine. it pours from my opened chest.

Who cut me? Did I? Or was it one of the priests?

My skin was dark then. And covered in blood. I helped my people. My blood helped my people. They will prevail and continue.

Who were they?


I see trees. My home was a forest once. I walk around the trunks, which are just as much a part of my world as the walls and furniture. Again I notice as the wind removes ashes from my arms.

My scars open, all of them, and I bleed. I do not die, though. Never do I die in this life. I am fated to live for a very long time. My spirit, however, is too used to dying while the body is young.

Aging terrifies me to no end.