Revolutions.

I am still under the effect of some memories from my life as a royalist in France, at the end of 18th century. I already knew most of it (excepting some specific data that turned out to be very useful for validations), but I am still caught in the emotions and the several questions that arise from such bloody experiences. It feels somehow different from other lives. There is sadness, but there are... other things as well. Things I don’t know how to describe.

Historians talk about massacres, some even want it to be declared a genocide. In my first memories the words “carnage” and “butchery” were already in my mind. Yes, it was a massacre, no doubt about it. At least I was lucky enough to be shot by a group of French soldiers (along with women and children) and I wasn’t killed like other people were. I know I got at least three shots, one possibly in my left arm, another one in my chest, though none were lethal. The last one came when I was lying on the ground.

I wanted to remember the life between lives, why not, but as usual I didn’t see much. After my death I floated above the wild scene, still not wanting to believe what had happened. But as I was getting near the spiritual world my mood lifted a bit and I felt as if I was returning home after a soccer match that had gone the wrong way, when it was supposed to be fun. My mum would open the door and I would be there standing, soaked in mud, angry and full of bruises. When I was “up there” I was just complaining “Too much blood, too much blood... Why does it have to be always like this?” I guess the word is “dirty”. I was feeling dirty...

And I could probably say that is how I have been feeling lately. As always, death is not that important. It was cruel, it was nonsense... but it is not a disgrace. It is just a way to quit and return to the place where we belong. I don’t feel guilty, and I don’t blame anyone. I don’t question who was right or who was wrong, I don’t think that matters. I feel dirty because there were too many things that should have been done in a different way, and we all were part of it. What I wonder is: “How come we always end up this way? Why couldn’t it be stopped? Which is the spark that ignites such terrible fire?”

It seems it was clear for me back then: I was fighting for my rights, for my family. We just wanted to keep living a normal life, thanks to the money we earned from our humble occupations. Nothing else. Months ago, in one of my regressions, I even had the thought I preferred the death of my family than living in the conditions they were forcing us to live. Well, we fought... and we certainly died. I am not sure what happened to my wife and kids, but I doubt they survived. And one of the main conflicts from this life is precisely this: I was trading the lives of my loved ones for some shitty rights. My own wife had argued with me for my decisions. But, the same question comes back over and over again: what else were we supposed to do? It is not a matter of pride, it is not a matter of vengeance. It is our land, our work, our basic needs... you just can’t stand and watch while they are stealing all you have. Maybe the problem is... you can’t rise up in arms and kill either.

We lost it anyway. Everything we had. Was it worth? Over 200 years later, I don’t know. I like to think revolutions change the world, but the world hasn’t changed much since then. Maybe revolutions only change... people.