Dreams have always felt like a backdoor to something bigger to me. Like, I’ll have these insanely vivid moments where I’m convinced I’ve brushed against another layer of existence—places with their own rules, people who feel too real to just be figments. One time, I dreamed of a city where the sky was inverted, all deep purples and swirling gold, and the people there spoke in riddles that made perfect sense until I woke up. It didn’t feel like my brain just cobbling together memories; it felt like visiting.
And then there are those dreams where you meet someone you’ve never seen before, but the connection is so intense it lingers for days. Maybe it’s just neurons firing wildly, but part of me wonders if dreams are less about inventing and more about tuning in—like dialing into a frequency most of us ignore when awake. The way some cultures treat dreams as sacred or prophetic kinda supports that idea, y’know? Either way, I’m keeping a dream journal now, just in case there’s a pattern I’m missing.