#dreamjournal — Public Fediverse posts

OMG I dreamed someone handed me a cute+ugly squirmy baby animal in a towel, and told me if I let it go or get near its face it would latch on and burrow into me. And then they left.

So I was carrying it around everywhere constantly petting it to keep it calm while looking for a secure place to lock it in.

I'm sure THAT symbolizes something. 🫣

#Dream #DreamJournal

OMG I dreamed someone handed me a cute+ugly squirmy baby animal in a towel, and told me if I let it go or get near its face it would latch on and burrow into me. And then they left.

So I was carrying it around everywhere constantly petting it to keep it calm while looking for a secure place to lock it in.

I'm sure THAT symbolizes something. 🫣

#Dream #DreamJournal

OMG I dreamed someone handed me a cute+ugly squirmy baby animal in a towel, and told me if I let it go or get near its face it would latch on and burrow into me. And then they left.

So I was carrying it around everywhere constantly petting it to keep it calm while looking for a secure place to lock it in.

I'm sure THAT symbolizes something. 🫣

#Dream #DreamJournal

OMG I dreamed someone handed me a cute+ugly squirmy baby animal in a towel, and told me if I let it go or get near its face it would latch on and burrow into me. And then they left.

So I was carrying it around everywhere constantly petting it to keep it calm while looking for a secure place to lock it in.

I'm sure THAT symbolizes something. 🫣

#Dream #DreamJournal

OMG I dreamed someone handed me a cute+ugly squirmy baby animal in a towel, and told me if I let it go or get near its face it would latch on and burrow into me. And then they left.

So I was carrying it around everywhere constantly petting it to keep it calm while looking for a secure place to lock it in.

I'm sure THAT symbolizes something. 🫣

#Dream #DreamJournal

I had a dream I was charging my [proprietary spyware watch] while it was on my wrist, it overheated and caught fire like a Samsung phone and I got burned #dreamjournal

I had a dream I was charging my [proprietary spyware watch] while it was on my wrist, it overheated and caught fire like a Samsung phone and I got burned #dreamjournal

Had a dream I was in the back lf an SUV and someone strangled me with piano wire
#dreamjournal

Had a dream I was in the back lf an SUV and someone strangled me with piano wire
#dreamjournal

Dream:

Wandering around a hotel/dorm/medical facility of some kind trying to find my room assignment. Not a completely run down place, but worn around the edges. Crowded with amiable younger dudes I was too busy to talk with.

Heard I could pick up work as a secretary to reputedly cantankerous Hal Jordan, but that didn't sound right. As I was waking up, realized it meant author Hal Clement (no knowledge that he was a jerk IRL).

"My Love" by Mitski played incessantly.

#DreamJournal #Dream

Dream:

Wandering around a hotel/dorm/medical facility of some kind trying to find my room assignment. Not a completely run down place, but worn around the edges. Crowded with amiable younger dudes I was too busy to talk with.

Heard I could pick up work as a secretary to reputedly cantankerous Hal Jordan, but that didn't sound right. As I was waking up, realized it meant author Hal Clement (no knowledge that he was a jerk IRL).

"My Love" by Mitski played incessantly.

#DreamJournal #Dream

Dream:

Wandering around a hotel/dorm/medical facility of some kind trying to find my room assignment. Not a completely run down place, but worn around the edges. Crowded with amiable younger dudes I was too busy to talk with.

Heard I could pick up work as a secretary to reputedly cantankerous Hal Jordan, but that didn't sound right. As I was waking up, realized it meant author Hal Clement (no knowledge that he was a jerk IRL).

"My Love" by Mitski played incessantly.

#DreamJournal #Dream

Dream:

Wandering around a hotel/dorm/medical facility of some kind trying to find my room assignment. Not a completely run down place, but worn around the edges. Crowded with amiable younger dudes I was too busy to talk with.

Heard I could pick up work as a secretary to reputedly cantankerous Hal Jordan, but that didn't sound right. As I was waking up, realized it meant author Hal Clement (no knowledge that he was a jerk IRL).

"My Love" by Mitski played incessantly.

#DreamJournal #Dream

Dream:

Wandering around a hotel/dorm/medical facility of some kind trying to find my room assignment. Not a completely run down place, but worn around the edges. Crowded with amiable younger dudes I was too busy to talk with.

Heard I could pick up work as a secretary to reputedly cantankerous Hal Jordan, but that didn't sound right. As I was waking up, realized it meant author Hal Clement (no knowledge that he was a jerk IRL).

"My Love" by Mitski played incessantly.

#DreamJournal #Dream

Had a dream that one of my lens broke in half and instead of getting new glasses I just wore an eye patch. #dreamjournal

Had a dream that one of my lens broke in half and instead of getting new glasses I just wore an eye patch. #dreamjournal

The backrooms motif of course representing something artificial closing in around you. Entrapping. And not just AI. I relate backrooms to my corporate days, which predate the liminal spaces trend by a long margin.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

The backrooms motif of course representing something artificial closing in around you. Entrapping. And not just AI. I relate backrooms to my corporate days, which predate the liminal spaces trend by a long margin.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

The backrooms motif of course representing something artificial closing in around you. Entrapping. And not just AI. I relate backrooms to my corporate days, which predate the liminal spaces trend by a long margin.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

The backrooms motif of course representing something artificial closing in around you. Entrapping. And not just AI. I relate backrooms to my corporate days, which predate the liminal spaces trend by a long margin.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

The backrooms motif of course representing something artificial closing in around you. Entrapping. And not just AI. I relate backrooms to my corporate days, which predate the liminal spaces trend by a long margin.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Honestly this is the #1 reason I avoid looking at AI content as much as possible, even in passing. Why I hold my hand up in front of screens if I can't skip.

I don't want that shit in my subconscious.

I fill my mind with as much stuff as possible. But not that shit.

The flying fake rooms were trying to mimick humanity, collecting and perverting, with a sense of wanting to replace.

Reflecting back, I think maybe sky things represent the collective mind. In my dreams, underwater scenes and houses have always represented my own mind. A sky disaster affects everyone. So the imagery of fake houses in the sky, well that's really deep.

Good job, brain.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Honestly this is the #1 reason I avoid looking at AI content as much as possible, even in passing. Why I hold my hand up in front of screens if I can't skip.

I don't want that shit in my subconscious.

I fill my mind with as much stuff as possible. But not that shit.

The flying fake rooms were trying to mimick humanity, collecting and perverting, with a sense of wanting to replace.

Reflecting back, I think maybe sky things represent the collective mind. In my dreams, underwater scenes and houses have always represented my own mind. A sky disaster affects everyone. So the imagery of fake houses in the sky, well that's really deep.

Good job, brain.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Honestly this is the #1 reason I avoid looking at AI content as much as possible, even in passing. Why I hold my hand up in front of screens if I can't skip.

I don't want that shit in my subconscious.

I fill my mind with as much stuff as possible. But not that shit.

The flying fake rooms were trying to mimick humanity, collecting and perverting, with a sense of wanting to replace.

Reflecting back, I think maybe sky things represent the collective mind. In my dreams, underwater scenes and houses have always represented my own mind. A sky disaster affects everyone. So the imagery of fake houses in the sky, well that's really deep.

Good job, brain.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Honestly this is the #1 reason I avoid looking at AI content as much as possible, even in passing. Why I hold my hand up in front of screens if I can't skip.

I don't want that shit in my subconscious.

I fill my mind with as much stuff as possible. But not that shit.

The flying fake rooms were trying to mimick humanity, collecting and perverting, with a sense of wanting to replace.

Reflecting back, I think maybe sky things represent the collective mind. In my dreams, underwater scenes and houses have always represented my own mind. A sky disaster affects everyone. So the imagery of fake houses in the sky, well that's really deep.

Good job, brain.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Honestly this is the #1 reason I avoid looking at AI content as much as possible, even in passing. Why I hold my hand up in front of screens if I can't skip.

I don't want that shit in my subconscious.

I fill my mind with as much stuff as possible. But not that shit.

The flying fake rooms were trying to mimick humanity, collecting and perverting, with a sense of wanting to replace.

Reflecting back, I think maybe sky things represent the collective mind. In my dreams, underwater scenes and houses have always represented my own mind. A sky disaster affects everyone. So the imagery of fake houses in the sky, well that's really deep.

Good job, brain.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

There was another moment when the zeitgeist entered my disaster dreams.

The sky was filled with lights as per usual, and meteorites were falling. The news was on. Fox was talking about their new website, Foxipedia Jr.. A conservative wikipedia for kids but somehow their font was in crayon.

I had that dream sometime in the early 2010s.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

There was another moment when the zeitgeist entered my disaster dreams.

The sky was filled with lights as per usual, and meteorites were falling. The news was on. Fox was talking about their new website, Foxipedia Jr.. A conservative wikipedia for kids but somehow their font was in crayon.

I had that dream sometime in the early 2010s.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

There was another moment when the zeitgeist entered my disaster dreams.

The sky was filled with lights as per usual, and meteorites were falling. The news was on. Fox was talking about their new website, Foxipedia Jr.. A conservative wikipedia for kids but somehow their font was in crayon.

I had that dream sometime in the early 2010s.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

There was another moment when the zeitgeist entered my disaster dreams.

The sky was filled with lights as per usual, and meteorites were falling. The news was on. Fox was talking about their new website, Foxipedia Jr.. A conservative wikipedia for kids but somehow their font was in crayon.

I had that dream sometime in the early 2010s.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

There was another moment when the zeitgeist entered my disaster dreams.

The sky was filled with lights as per usual, and meteorites were falling. The news was on. Fox was talking about their new website, Foxipedia Jr.. A conservative wikipedia for kids but somehow their font was in crayon.

I had that dream sometime in the early 2010s.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Ok so my disaster dreams have upgraded for the times. My subconscious has been exposed to Backrooms concepts enough.

I've long had disaster dreams, usually tornadoes, or weird sky effects, maybe aliens, stuff going on in the air.

So this time, the sky began to fill with flying .... rooms? Little apartments or houses filled with furniture, but stuff wasn't right, like something was trying to copy everyone's homes, but messed up. Like little IKEA showrooms flying above us, changing as it learned.

So that's interesting. That I can mark the moment an aspect of the zeitgeist entered my subconscious. This is collective unconscious magic.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Ok so my disaster dreams have upgraded for the times. My subconscious has been exposed to Backrooms concepts enough.

I've long had disaster dreams, usually tornadoes, or weird sky effects, maybe aliens, stuff going on in the air.

So this time, the sky began to fill with flying .... rooms? Little apartments or houses filled with furniture, but stuff wasn't right, like something was trying to copy everyone's homes, but messed up. Like little IKEA showrooms flying above us, changing as it learned.

So that's interesting. That I can mark the moment an aspect of the zeitgeist entered my subconscious. This is collective unconscious magic.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Ok so my disaster dreams have upgraded for the times. My subconscious has been exposed to Backrooms concepts enough.

I've long had disaster dreams, usually tornadoes, or weird sky effects, maybe aliens, stuff going on in the air.

So this time, the sky began to fill with flying .... rooms? Little apartments or houses filled with furniture, but stuff wasn't right, like something was trying to copy everyone's homes, but messed up. Like little IKEA showrooms flying above us, changing as it learned.

So that's interesting. That I can mark the moment an aspect of the zeitgeist entered my subconscious. This is collective unconscious magic.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Ok so my disaster dreams have upgraded for the times. My subconscious has been exposed to Backrooms concepts enough.

I've long had disaster dreams, usually tornadoes, or weird sky effects, maybe aliens, stuff going on in the air.

So this time, the sky began to fill with flying .... rooms? Little apartments or houses filled with furniture, but stuff wasn't right, like something was trying to copy everyone's homes, but messed up. Like little IKEA showrooms flying above us, changing as it learned.

So that's interesting. That I can mark the moment an aspect of the zeitgeist entered my subconscious. This is collective unconscious magic.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

Ok so my disaster dreams have upgraded for the times. My subconscious has been exposed to Backrooms concepts enough.

I've long had disaster dreams, usually tornadoes, or weird sky effects, maybe aliens, stuff going on in the air.

So this time, the sky began to fill with flying .... rooms? Little apartments or houses filled with furniture, but stuff wasn't right, like something was trying to copy everyone's homes, but messed up. Like little IKEA showrooms flying above us, changing as it learned.

So that's interesting. That I can mark the moment an aspect of the zeitgeist entered my subconscious. This is collective unconscious magic.

#DreamJournal #Jung #liminal

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

What secrets do your dreams hold? A gilded key, a steaming cup, a silent forest, a leather-bound journal... Each a whisper from the Dreamworld. Dive deeper into the symbols that echo in your subconscious. Consult the Dream Oracle to decode your dreams. #Dreamwalker #DreamJournal #Symbolism #MysticEscape

#Dreams I received a bamboo steamer as a present. It contained a dead fish that I could throw in the carriage window of anyone who sent me #spam

Take that!

#dreamjournal

#Dreams I received a bamboo steamer as a present. It contained a dead fish that I could throw in the carriage window of anyone who sent me #spam

Take that!

#dreamjournal

#Dreams I received a bamboo steamer as a present. It contained a dead fish that I could throw in the carriage window of anyone who sent me #spam

Take that!

#dreamjournal

#Dreams I received a bamboo steamer as a present. It contained a dead fish that I could throw in the carriage window of anyone who sent me #spam

Take that!

#dreamjournal

#Dreams I received a bamboo steamer as a present. It contained a dead fish that I could throw in the carriage window of anyone who sent me #spam

Take that!

#dreamjournal

Edited a weird old dream entry: two dudes, half-socks, a green department store, archaic vocabulary, questionable adolescent phrasing, & the haunting possibility that embarrassment is just loneliness trying to get noticed.

#DreamJournal #WeirdDream #Inscrutable

https://www.tumblr.com/dreamsofmoribundmurdoch/187082980205/im-so-lonely-i-must-desire-to-be-embarrassed?source=share

[dj] Peludito's Hiding Place
- in my dream, he loved going under the threshold to the bathroom. How does he fit? Lol  #spaceRARt #dreamjournal #demon #skull #pet

[dj] Peludito's Hiding Place
- in my dream, he loved going under the threshold to the bathroom. How does he fit? Lol  #spaceRARt #dreamjournal #demon #skull #pet

dreamed that world of warcraft was good again #dreamjournal

dreamed that world of warcraft was good again #dreamjournal

I've been heavily processing lately. Lots of dreams.

Last night it was me arguing with my MAGA brother, who also IRL refused to help me when I was in crisis caretaking our mother until I left (now he's stuck with her).

In the dream he had a full-sized love android, and I'd seen her be violent but he hadn't, so he was denying it. I didn't want to be around her because I knew she'd kill me by order of the government surveillance apparatus. And I was trying to convince my brother of this, and of the fascism of it all. I was trying to use my questions method, but he just kept completely avoiding and deflecting. I started just screaming at him.

The setting was a series of connected shops right on the Canadian border, so I was jumping back and forth by crossing from the diner to the gift shop while other things were going on.

#DreamJournal #journal #Recovery2026

I've been heavily processing lately. Lots of dreams.

Last night it was me arguing with my MAGA brother, who also IRL refused to help me when I was in crisis caretaking our mother until I left (now he's stuck with her).

In the dream he had a full-sized love android, and I'd seen her be violent but he hadn't, so he was denying it. I didn't want to be around her because I knew she'd kill me by order of the government surveillance apparatus. And I was trying to convince my brother of this, and of the fascism of it all. I was trying to use my questions method, but he just kept completely avoiding and deflecting. I started just screaming at him.

The setting was a series of connected shops right on the Canadian border, so I was jumping back and forth by crossing from the diner to the gift shop while other things were going on.

#DreamJournal #journal #Recovery2026

I've been heavily processing lately. Lots of dreams.

Last night it was me arguing with my MAGA brother, who also IRL refused to help me when I was in crisis caretaking our mother until I left (now he's stuck with her).

In the dream he had a full-sized love android, and I'd seen her be violent but he hadn't, so he was denying it. I didn't want to be around her because I knew she'd kill me by order of the government surveillance apparatus. And I was trying to convince my brother of this, and of the fascism of it all. I was trying to use my questions method, but he just kept completely avoiding and deflecting. I started just screaming at him.

The setting was a series of connected shops right on the Canadian border, so I was jumping back and forth by crossing from the diner to the gift shop while other things were going on.

#DreamJournal #journal #Recovery2026

I've been heavily processing lately. Lots of dreams.

Last night it was me arguing with my MAGA brother, who also IRL refused to help me when I was in crisis caretaking our mother until I left (now he's stuck with her).

In the dream he had a full-sized love android, and I'd seen her be violent but he hadn't, so he was denying it. I didn't want to be around her because I knew she'd kill me by order of the government surveillance apparatus. And I was trying to convince my brother of this, and of the fascism of it all. I was trying to use my questions method, but he just kept completely avoiding and deflecting. I started just screaming at him.

The setting was a series of connected shops right on the Canadian border, so I was jumping back and forth by crossing from the diner to the gift shop while other things were going on.

#DreamJournal #journal #Recovery2026

I was in a dilapidated warehouse and shot someone during a societal collapse. I'm not sure if he really died but his corpse kept reanimating and taunting me telepathically.

I was then in a high rise apartment where an earthquake happened and the building tipped over with me in it. #dreamjournal