Memoirs of a Dream That Never Ended

Memoirs of a Dream That Never Ended
The story I could only live with my eyes closed.


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It began, as all dreams do, without warning.

I remember waking up inside it—or what felt like waking. I stood barefoot on a black sand beach, the air thick with the scent of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. The sky pulsed a shade of blue I don’t think exists anywhere else—deeper than twilight, but not yet night. There were no stars. Just a single moon hanging far too low, almost touching the sea.

I thought I was dreaming. Then I realized I couldn’t remember falling asleep.

Every step I took left a glowing footprint behind me, which vanished seconds later like it had never been there. The waves hummed. Not crashed. Hummed, like some forgotten lullaby sung from the throat of the ocean. And even though I was alone, I didn’t feel lonely. It felt like the place was waiting for me. Or maybe I had been waiting for it.

I walked for what could’ve been hours or minutes. Time didn’t follow rules here. I found a house made of driftwood and mirrors. It had no door, but when I stepped inside, I was instantly inside my childhood bedroom. The same posters on the walls. The glow-in-the-dark stars still faintly clinging to the ceiling. A copy of a book I never finished reading was still on the desk. I picked it up and opened to the first page—and my name was there, handwritten, but I don’t remember ever writing it.

I started to think this dream wasn’t just mine. That maybe it belonged to all the versions of me I had left behind.

Each time I “slept” in the dream, I woke up in another layer. A city made entirely of books where the people whispered in paper rustles. A floating train that stopped at invisible stations. A forest where the trees grew upside down and birds recited poetry with voices like my mother’s.

I stopped questioning it. There was a peace in surrendering. The rules of the real world—gravity, time, memory—had softened here like old wax.

But eventually, I began to forget things.

It started small. My phone number. The smell of coffee. The way sunlight feels on closed eyelids. I forgot my sister’s voice. My father’s laugh. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt cold.

One night, I stared into a mirror hanging in a hallway made of clouds. My reflection blinked a second after I did. Then it tilted its head and asked, “Why are you still here?”

I didn’t have an answer.

The dream didn’t end. I never woke up.


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People like to say, “You’ll know when you’re dreaming.” That your mind will scream the clues: clocks that don’t work, hands that change, stairs that loop forever. But when you’ve been inside a dream long enough, it doesn’t feel like a dream anymore. It feels like life. It becomes memory.

So I started writing. Not on paper—there was no paper here—but in the sky, on walls, in ripples of water. I etched the pieces of who I was in the world I came from. My name. The street I grew up on. The freckles on my first love’s shoulder. I buried truths inside the landscapes, hoping if I lost myself completely, some future version of me would find the breadcrumbs.

Sometimes, I heard voices from the waking world. Like echoes through water. A woman crying. A man shouting. A beep… rhythmic and distant. I didn’t recognize any of it, not really. But something in me flinched with every sound.

One night, I met someone else. She said her name was Elara, and she’d been here “for lifetimes.” She didn’t remember her real face anymore, just how her mother’s hands felt when she braided her hair.

I asked her if she missed being awake.

She smiled sadly and said, “Maybe I never was.”


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I don’t know how long it’s been now. Time has unraveled itself into thread, and I’m walking its length without counting. But here’s what I do know:

The dream has layers. And some part of me still fights to rise through them. Some part of me still wants to wake up. I think that’s why I’m writing this—not to be read, but to be remembered. If you find this, if these words somehow drift into your mind while you sleep, maybe it means I’m getting close. Maybe it means dreams are doors, and some doors can be opened from both sides.

Or maybe you’re dreaming, too.

And if you are… tell me how to wake up.

Because I’m starting to forget again.
Because I’m afraid this isn’t a dream anymore.
Because the moon has started speaking in my voice.
Because I saw myself walking the other way last night—and I didn’t stop to say helloitten
hello.