I remember the jarring sensation, that gut-wrenching lurch in the pit of my stomach, the sheer panic as the ground rushed up to meet me. Then, the jolt, the sudden
I remember it like it was yesterday, the chill that snaked its way down my spine when I saw my own reflection, distorted and fractured, staring back at me from
I still remember the feeling of waking up, that quiet morning, with the distinct impression of fresh, damp earth clinging to my senses. It wasn’t raining outside, but my dream
Remember that knot in your stomach when a dream just wouldn’t let go? That feeling of unease or profound joy that lingered long after the sun rose? I’ve been there,
I remember the cold dread that settled in my stomach, like a stone, the first time I dreamt of my own mother dying. The air in my bedroom felt heavy,
I remember the first time I dreamed my wife was pregnant. The scene was vivid: a soft, golden light filling our bedroom, her belly round and undeniable, and this strange,
Remember that feeling? The rush of air, the world unfolding beneath you like a vast, unspoken promise. I know I do. For years, I’d wake up from flying dreams feeling
I remember standing there, years ago, after a dream that felt like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t violent, not scary, but utterly confusing. I woke up with that
I remember a time, not so long ago, when dreams felt like a chaotic jumble of random thoughts, a nightly movie reel with no discernible plot. It was a phase
I remember a time, years ago, when my life felt just like a flooded basement. Not a dream, but the actual reality of a plumbing disaster in my first home.
