I am frustrated, because I can remember. I remember that I used to be pretty. I remember the clothes I once wore, the places I'd been to. I remember that once, I could tell jokes, that I could play a musical instrument with some skill.

I remember that once, I danced barefoot in the grass, around a fire. I remember that once, I was graceful. I remember that once, I watched in fascination as ships docked on the beach, not knowing what they were.

And yet I cannot remember. I should not remember. These were my past lives. The first, I estimate to be around Victorian times. The second, around Elizabethan to Early Stuart times.

I should not remember, but I do. It is wonderful and frightening and sad at the same time. Wonderful because, well, who wouldn't want to know? And it explained my love of history, of dance and music, though now I am severely tone deaf and have all the grace of a duck having a seizure.

It is frightening because, it shouldn't have happened. Something likely went wrong, or was skewed somehow. I don't like not knowing.

It is sad because I can remember, and yet cannot tell anyone, because I will be thought mad.

I remember.