In another life, I had brown skin and lived in Mexico. It was an age when vines did not grow wildly over the Mayan pyramids as they do now. In that civilization, when I was still a child, I learned to not to worship the sky, but rather, I was taught to read the signs that were revealed in the temples of our fathers and to believe that in the end, the same life is lived again.
We were intelligent beings. Everyone in society had a purpose. My father gave me a gift of understanding; insight of the tomorrows promised in every star over thick jungle canopies. This sacred knowledge, like the washing of hands in other civilizations, was shared with him from those who came before. This knowledge is an unwritten map of the future, where if one manages to stop the endless stream of thought, he is made a god in kingdoms to come.
My people, the chosen ones, knew that the end was near, yet as far away as what has just passed. Our prophets wrote about tomorrow long ago. Our calendar ended, yet it began anew, yet again, just as we understood.
In another life, the end seemed so far away. I was told that I would live to see the ruins of the great stone temples and that I would witness their destruction, and yet, somehow, they would rise to glory again. I understood that the time of sorrows, when new souls have run out and infants are born weeping, with no cares of life to cling to, that I too would rise again behind pale white skin.
That life, I was told, was many lifetimes away, but I have always remembered what I learned from that life when I stopped thought again in this one.
I have done what was required of me in each of my lives, but I will never forget that stone palace where I was born. It is always a part of me. I am its light.
We did not bury our gods in our man made mountains as others of ancient times have done. We understood, even then, that it was not necessary to survive in an underworld and afterlife that is not here. Life begins new; yet all experiences are lost—it fuels the endless twist of time. We knew our time to rise to power again would return, just as the rains from the great sea gather in thunder and anger to remind us that change is the key to life, and making it eternal is by becoming nothing inside. We learned not to worship the temples we built in last lives; instead we turned to dust and blew upon the very winds that brought our ancestors to a new land where fruit grew underground.
My father worked an important job below the plaza and pyramids. He kept fresh water running through the homes of our civilization, yet no one knew not to pour the blood of those we killed for time itself into the well in which we all bathed in for the purpose of forgetting.