Again, last night, more dreams of my past. I don't want to dream of my past. It's gone.

Oh, it's nice to remember. But that's the problem. Lately, I've been spending too much time, "remembering." I don't want to do that.

The odd thing is, is that the memories I have now, are so completely different than anything I'd ever had before--and, stranger still, much more mundane. When things were better, when my parents were still alive, when I still had a "proper" home, a hometown, a solid place in this life, my memories were of special moments, happier times. I didn't dwell overly much on the miserable times--the fights, the silences, the humiliations.

Now, when I think back on my past, I remember the little things--totally insignificant, in some respects: shopping at woolworth's, mowing the lawn, lying on my bed reading a book or playing with my toy cowboys, waiting on a foggy morning for the school bus, mum making dinner in the kitchen, dad sitting in his chair reading the paper, sis and that daft stuffed cat she won at the church fair--and how it reeked of the perfume she doused its head with. totally random, meaningless stuff--helping mum at the library, walking home from a trip down to the village, walking along the rail tracks, the sound of the school bus as it came grinding up the long hill, before stopping at our street, the look and smell of the bright, bright green grass in springtime, in the field next door to our house. Totally, utterly insignificant.

And it's more than just memories, now--much more. It's feelings, as well--deep seated stirrings of emotion--I can also remember how each moment felt, if not exactly what I was thinking--it's almost like traveling back in time to the exact second the moment happened...it's, sometimes nice, but more often than not, for some reason, uncomfortable. Because I've never had this before.

I don't want to dwell on the past too much--it's over, it's gone, it's dead. So why am I, now--even in my dreams at night? I don't know. I just don't.