I dreamt of life and smells last night.  So many smells mixed together, but the one that stood out more than anything was the smell of wet earth and life.  It smelled like freshly tilled soil.  Something that is as much a part of the plant as the sun and the wind.  It was almost crawling with life.  But at the same time, it was sleeping.

My dreams seem to be streching out more and more.  The time frames of them are beyond what I remember from before.  From before I was here. I still think these are someone else’s dreams that have made their way into my mind.  I keep having flashes that my mind is this bank.  Not a bank of money or of a river, but something hard and unyeilding.  I know it is so hard to think of terms that pull in what it seems like.  Why can’t I remember what I look like anymore?

I know that something is present in these moments when i dream, some fragment of a memory.  Some bit of me is in these moments, but they always cut away before I can see myself.  When i try to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or a reflective surface, i see light.  Only a blurred light, and I don’t understand why.  How long has it been since I have seen my face.  Why don’t I remember what I look like?  What if i have seen reflections in the distance, but couldn’t tell it was me i was seeing.

The dream though.  The earth, the feeling of the soil, the sensation of my hands in the ground.  I can feel my hands plunging into it.  Reaching into the ground and the earth surrounding them.  It was cool, and warm at the same time.  Soothing, and rough.  And the smell that rose from the ground was something I can’t describe.  I read once that the smell is a bacteria.  That when it is disturbed it releases a chemical signal.  A warning alarm of some sort.  I can’t remember if that is true, or another dream.  Is that smell that comforts me so much a scream of the dirt.  It can’t be that our brains are tied into that smell so closely.  I still wonder if I was a farmer.  What did i do when i wasn’t here?  When i wasn’t dreaming all the time.  Dreaming in this room and this bed.  Stuck in this body.  I can’t have been a farmer could i?  I must have done something, but I can’t remember any of it.  I know i had a job to do, and work that was mine, but it isn’t something I dream about.  I can’t remember what it was anymore.  I can’t remember so much of what was happening before I got here.

Today was disjointed.  All the thoughts I had are tumbling around, working their way through my brain.  Like a scramble of thoughts, where each one is there as a picture or a thumbnail of the underlying idea.  Nothing major or themed in any way comes through, but each is trying to get free at the same moment.