I remember the first time a dream startled me awake, not with fear, but with an odd sense of… intrusion. It was a vivid image, clear as day, of something
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 chilling sensation like it was yesterday, though it was years ago. That heavy, suffocating feeling in a dream where my voice just wouldn’t work, no matter how
I remember a period in my life when it felt like the world was constantly hitting the rewind button. It wasn’t just a sense of deja vu; it was a
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
I remember waking up, heart thumping, the phantom scent of smoke thick in my imagination, a vivid image of a raging forest fire burning without smoke imprinted behind my eyelids.
You know, there are mornings when you wake up and a dream just clings to you, a sticky, persistent feeling that whispers, “Pay attention.” I remember one particular dawn, maybe
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
