Dreams aren't supposed to be like this. They're supposed to be yours—a private world of silly pictures and fleeting adventures. Dreams are supposed to be yours.
Mine aren't.
I'm terrified of what happens when I close my eyes. But a deeper, colder fear has begun to take root. With every passing night, they feel more present, gradually solidifying.
And I feel myself fading.
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They say that in dreams, we enter a world entirely our own. A private place, where the mind plays out its secret desires and deepest fears.
For some, it's a connection to another plane, a glimpse into the collective soul of humanity. I used to believe that. I used to find comfort in that pretty, simple thought. Not anymore.
People talk about dreams as harbingers—warnings, guidance, glimpses of the future. So what do these nightmares foretell? Are these monstrous creatures a glimpse of what's to come?
What are they trying to tell me? Are they twisted reflections of my own hidden desires, fears, or a personality I refuse to acknowledge?
I deny them, refuse to call them part of me. Or are they something else entirely—past-life memories? Glimpses of another reality bleeding into mine? Or maybe... they're not just about me.
Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy. Yeah, these dreams are crazy.
Do these always appear when I sleep?
Yes, they do. It has been this way for as long as I can remember. I have never known a single night of silent, empty sleep. I have spent more of my life wandering its haunted corridors than I have in the fifteen years of my waking world.
I've often felt that this "other world" isn't a place at all, but a state of being—a chasm of consciousness I fall into every time I close my eyes.
A deep part of myself, or a state of deep artistic creation where the artist enters a different dimension of consciousness.
I see the world that exists alongside ours, perhaps accessible through specific circumstances or individuals. I don't know.
I questioned myself.
Am I what I seem, or what I long to be?
I never found the answer. I know who I am, I think. But how can I be sure? When do these other lives feel so real? What does it truly mean to be 'self-aware' when your mind is a battleground?
Maybe It means you know you're you. You know you're thinking, feeling, and doing things.
Maybe, because you're not just a robot following orders. I always look in a mirror and say, "That's me."
They aren't.
These beings appear. My mind, I know, can compartmentalize, creating distinct personalities. I've read about it—how extreme trauma, they say, can sometimes split a mind into completely separate people, each with their own memories and ways of acting. Dissociative Identity Disorder.
But I've never suffered any trauma, physical or psychological. I've even asked my parents. My world is too small, too simple, to have forged the creatures I encounter. They are not fragments of me. They are... other.
I've considered that these "other personalities" might be archetypes—the hero, the shadow, facets of myself emerging in strange situations. But they're not just aspects of my psyche. They're supernatural. They feel like magic.
But this world doesn't have magic, or is there. Like hidden society or the outer world. I never know.
The "other personalitties" might not be internal at all, but an external entity possessing a character, adding a layer of supernatural or fantastical creature present in my mind.
They sometimes feel... more real than my reality?
I feel like I'm watching their life from outside. Or maybe sometimes from inside, they feel like I'm playing a role.
This could be because of how the brain is wired. But I have lived like this.
"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." My eyes have been fixed on this abyss since birth.
So, what does that make me?
Am I a monster now? Did that place transform me, or was I born a monster, destined to be a vessel for these others?
I don't know.I thought I'd entered another world, and I'm convinced that's exactly what it is… These are not dreams. The sweat that soaks my sheets is real, but the worlds that birth it are alien to me.
They are not my fears, not my aspirations, not some shadowy version of myself I refuse to acknowledge in the light of day. I have searched for a name for what I experience. But, no answers.
These dreams or rather the world of these people have messed up my head so much that I can't remember who I really am. At least I'm still together, these dreams have long been part of my life and my small world.
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