I remember the day I realized my own silence was deafening. It was a muggy Tuesday, the kind where the air hangs thick and heavy, pressing down on you like
I remember the first time I woke up in a cold sweat, convinced I had somehow rewound time. It wasn’t just a fleeting sensation; it was a deeply unsettling dream
I remember a time, early in my journey, when dreams felt like a chaotic jumble of images, a restless movie playing behind my eyelids. There were nights I’d wake up
You know that feeling, right? That sudden jolt in the middle of the night, your heart hammering against your ribs, because there’s this insistent, almost deafening, *tick-tock* echoing in your
I remember the gut punch. That feeling in the pit of my stomach when I saw the spiderweb crack across my phone screen. It wasn’t just glass; it felt like
I remember a time, not so long ago, when every dream felt like a cryptic message from a distant shore, especially the ones that spoke of being stuck, of roads
I remember a period in my life, maybe fifteen years ago, when every night felt like a descent into a maze of unsettling imagery. My sleep was restless, peppered with
I remember staring at my reflection in the mirror one morning, the scent of fresh coffee barely masking the lingering confusion from the night’s dream. It wasn’t just any dream;
I remember a time, years ago, when the smallest prick felt like the end of the world. It wasn’t just physical pain; it was the sting of exposure, the raw
I remember a time, not so long ago, when my nights felt more like a cryptic puzzle than a restful escape. Dreams, those fleeting narratives woven by the subconscious, often
