Last night, I dreamedāthough I canāt tell you what of, not exactly. There were fragments. A lawn, half-mown, or catsādozens of them, maybe. Their shapes flicker now at the edge of memory, insubstantial. Thatās 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 wasnāt 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.
Iāve thought about starting again. Journaling. Documenting. Not just the dreams, but the moments around themāthe texture of waking, the taste of forgetting. Because vivid dreams begin with remembering, donāt 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. Thereās something foul in remembering too much.
Still. Maybe Iāll try.