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Last night, I dreamed, though I can’t tell you what of, not exactly. There were fragments. A lawn, half-mown, or cats, dozens of them, maybe. Their shapes flicker now at the edge of memory, insubstantial. That’s how it always goes. I dream every night, I know this, but each one slips through my fingers by morning, evaporating like steam before I can grasp it.
It wasn’t always this way. As a child, I kept a dream journal. Religious about it. Woke up, wrote it down. And something about that changed me. Sharpened the recall, made dreams more solid. Realer. And then, over time, something turned. Now they vanish even faster. Like the act of remembering too hard wore out the muscle.
I’ve thought about starting again. Journaling. Documenting. Not just the dreams, but the moments around them, the texture of waking, the taste of forgetting. Because vivid dreams begin with remembering, don’t they?
But I hate recollection. The way it drags old feelings back up, stale and bitter. The way it stains the present with shadows of things that never happened. There’s something foul in remembering too much.
Still. Maybe I’ll try.
It wasn’t always this way. As a child, I kept a dream journal. Religious about it. Woke up, wrote it down. And something about that changed me. Sharpened the recall, made dreams more solid. Realer. And then, over time, something turned. Now they vanish even faster. Like the act of remembering too hard wore out the muscle.
I’ve thought about starting again. Journaling. Documenting. Not just the dreams, but the moments around them, the texture of waking, the taste of forgetting. Because vivid dreams begin with remembering, don’t they?
But I hate recollection. The way it drags old feelings back up, stale and bitter. The way it stains the present with shadows of things that never happened. There’s something foul in remembering too much.
Still. Maybe I’ll try.
Jun 7, 2025
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Anyone close to me knows that I’m really into recording my dreams and that I love talking about it, specifically how it has done wonders for my memory. I’ve been obsessed with dream phenomena since I was a kid since I’ve always had insanely vivid dreams and can honestly separate my life into chapters based on the recurring dream I was having at the time. I was really into dream journaling when I was a teenager, and then I switched over to recording my dreams in my voice memos app during 2020, but I’ve kinda fallen off in more recent years. But every morning, I try to at least recall my dream to myself, even if just an inkling of what I thought I might’ve just dreamt. And more often than not, when I go back to bed later on that night, get in my usual sleeping position and close my eyes, I can usually remember at least the general essence of the dream I had the previous night. I think that recording my dreams has really improved my memory overall. I also just think it’s really fun and interesting, even though about 70% of my dreams are stress-inducing or consist of my deepest subconscious thoughts, insecurities and fears being thrown in my face :)
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I can’t call these dreams memorable, but they are recent. I write them down in a sleepy stupor immediately upon waking up and then forget ever having them. I recognize it when I read it back but rarely recall them throughout the day without checking my dream journal.
May 23, 2025
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you have to catch a dream before you lose it to get started, but once you get into the habit of writing down your dreams and bodily awareness when you’re awake (pinching yourself to see if it’s real, for example - in a dream your fingers will pass right through the skin) you may gain better memory upon waking. lots of people say to write them in a physical journal, but i just have a notes app page going with several years worth of dreams. here are some silly ones from recently
Jul 10, 2025
Top Recs from @baixwar
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For a man who follows his heart can never be weak. That’s what I used to believe, once, before the bodies piled up like autumn leaves, and belief curdled into something thinner than blood.
I caught the whistle player once, a man stitched together by calluses and riddles. His tune wasn’t music; it was a wound dressed in melody. It scraped something raw inside me. A song of mystery, yes, but also of cruelty, a tune without mercy. When I asked him how he knew such things, he only laughed. Said the desert had taught him.
Said that Mother Gaia, if she ever existed, didn’t whisper. She screamed. Through the grains of sand, she dragged him down, ankle-first, bone-deep, until he touched her molten heart. Said he came back remade, not better, just aware.
"Men," he spat, as if the word itself offended him, "have always been the destroyers."
Not gods. Not fate. Not even history. Men.
And I realized then: this isn't about nations or borders or wars. It’s about the individual. The one who chooses to light the match. The one who watches the blaze.
It is the gender.
It is the myth we wrote in our own image, thinking ourselves gods, when all we ever were, are, was ruin.
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I knew this love of mine was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleeps, but the kind that floats, listless and unmoored, like a feather dislodged in a storm. It drifted upward, aimless, circling, caught in the breath of things that once felt steady: laughter, warmth, the scent of jasmine from my grandmother’s porch before the war of illness took her away. Joyful people are rarely light. The ones who care the most often carry the heaviest sorrow, but they smile, because someone has to.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
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There’s no one in the streets. No sun. Just air that tastes like glass, clear but not clean, and buildings that loom without casting shadows. Everything feels like it’s been stripped of texture. Like I could reach out and touch the world, and my hand would just go through it. No resistance. No weight.
Sex happens like clockwork. Mechanical. A function of survival, maybe. Like brushing teeth. I push it down every time, bury it under work, under errands, under excuses. I used to feel something, I think. A long time ago. Now it’s just static. Daily static. I don’t know if I’m asexual or just broken in some mundane, irreversible way. It speaks for itself, the silence of it. And that silence is loud.
It gets tiring, pretending that the distance is choice and not corrosion. That I’m not constantly eroding into something less than what I was. That I’m not grieving someone who’s still here.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m smarter than everyone else. Not in the way of grades or degrees, but in the way of rot, like I’ve stared too long into the abyss and memorized its language. Nihilism like a second skin. Maybe I make people feel stupid, or maybe they are. I don’t know. I just know I’ve learned how to weaponize detachment. How to turn thinking too much into a shield.
But there’s no comfort in being clever when everything feels invisible.
Sex happens like clockwork. Mechanical. A function of survival, maybe. Like brushing teeth. I push it down every time, bury it under work, under errands, under excuses. I used to feel something, I think. A long time ago. Now it’s just static. Daily static. I don’t know if I’m asexual or just broken in some mundane, irreversible way. It speaks for itself, the silence of it. And that silence is loud.
It gets tiring, pretending that the distance is choice and not corrosion. That I’m not constantly eroding into something less than what I was. That I’m not grieving someone who’s still here.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m smarter than everyone else. Not in the way of grades or degrees, but in the way of rot, like I’ve stared too long into the abyss and memorized its language. Nihilism like a second skin. Maybe I make people feel stupid, or maybe they are. I don’t know. I just know I’ve learned how to weaponize detachment. How to turn thinking too much into a shield.
But there’s no comfort in being clever when everything feels invisible.