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.
I remember the first time I woke up from a dream feeling a mix of elation and utter confusion. There I was, holding a handful of crisp, unfamiliar banknotes, the
That sick feeling, you know it, right? The one that hits you when you’ve been cooking, walked away for “just a minute,” and then that sharp, acrid scent of smoke
I remember standing at a crossroads in my own life, years ago, feeling like my carefully constructed plans were suddenly veering off course. That unsettling feeling, that tremor of uncertainty,
That Flimsy Plastic Bag Feeling I get it. That feeling of being utterly exposed, like your innermost self is suddenly transparent, fragile, ready to tear at the slightest snag. It’s
I remember a time, early in my journey, when a dream left me truly rattled. It wasn’t a nightmare in the traditional sense, no monsters or falling from great heights,
I remember the first time I dreamed of my grandmother after she passed. It wasn’t long after her burial, and grief still clung to me like the sticky summer humidity.
I remember a morning, years ago, waking with a jolt, the unsettling image of a toothbrush submerged in murky toilet water still vivid. It felt so real, the sticky feeling
I remember a time, not so long ago, when my life felt like a cluttered attic. Boxes piled high, forgotten memories gathering dust. And then there was that old carpet
