I dreamt I was a cartographer. I spent my days exploring. Hiking to the top of forest covered mountains, taking note of the indigenous flora. Being careful not to disrupt the animals as they drank from the stream beds. At night, I was a draftsman, charting my days journeys by candle light. Undulating concentric shapes, patterns and tones fill my note pads. I gave shape to the land's textures.
I dreamt I was a botanist. My work began at dawn, inside a house of glass interlaced with cobwebbed steel. Inside a tangle of leaf, vine and petal. I was caring for plants, while cataloging their growth and permutations. Some days, I would sweat as the noon day sun peered through the foliage and skylights. On a somber day, I might sit among the moss, listening to the rain beating down above me.
I dreamt I was an archivist. Making my way, each day, among the great library's ancient stacks. I Examined records and transcripts of ancient tales and exploits. Gathering the writings, artifacts and culture of civilizations from across the continents. I was careful to preserve each loose piece of paper, taking care when handling elderly tomes. My life was consumed with the whispers of days long past.