Sometimes I dream, but it is not in the way of normal dreaming. Heh, if dreams can be said to be normal at all. It is not I who wander, hunt, live through these dreamscapes. It is through the eyes of others that are somehow still me that I see. The details are vivid: the cold caress of the wind against bare skin, the warmth of the spring sun heating my back in the crisp air, the rough sensation of wooden oars in my calloused hands, the flapping of sails, and laughing rush of water against wood.
Dreams alone would perhaps not have been enough, but then there are the fragments. They come over me as glimpses into things past, seen as if through the grey cataracts of old age. Shards of memory, fragmented and lacking cohesion. A wild and vivid imagination, perhaps that is all it is. Then again, perhaps not.
Often when I visit places that are similarly fragmented, broken, it’s as if though some of the haze is lifted. One such place is Alvastra, the ruins of an old monastery not too far from where I live. Roaming the ruins was almost like walking myself into a trance, a trance in which I could almost hear the voices of those since long gone. It is not the only place that’s triggered something like that, for some reason old places and buildings call out to me.
As I think back, it was perhaps the calling that triggered my desire to search. Not that I expected to find anything, but I did. The dreaming, the fragmented memories and the visions amounted to feelings of certainty that I struggled with at first. Could it be that I had stumbled upon glimpses of myself in those who came before me? That is what I grew to believe and what drove me to search back in an attempt to discover the point of origin.
I have sailed across the open seas, hunted with spear and torch over vast expanses of green, but I have yet to find it.
Thus my quest continues, in search of the First.