Dreaming of Everyday Life

My nights are nothing but black. Unlike other people, I have no memories of the hours between lying down in bed at night and rubbing my eyes awake in the morning. Because I rarely remember my dreams, my nights are black.

I am sure there was a time when I encountered tender memories and people I missed dearly in my dreams. Yet lately, I often wake up without remembering a thing. Sometimes, the vivid dreams other people describe seem almost like stories they have made up. Of course, I dream too, but the fragments I can recall are invariably brief and hazy. Perhaps that is why I wake up every morning with a stale taste in my mouth. Call it a complaint or call it envy; perhaps it is a little of both.

Perhaps the problem is not simply that I cannot remember my dreams, but that there is nothing in my life worth transforming into one. These days, even my waking hours seem colorless.

Last year, when I had more room to breathe, I struggled earnestly to make the most of everyday life, preoccupying myself with philosophies of living and all sorts of lofty ideas. I lived believing that carpe diem was my personal motto. I was so deeply moved by the way Dead Poets Society explored the idea that I watched certain scenes over and over again. Whenever I listened to Mr. Keating's words, I almost felt as though I had truly become the master of my own life.

And so, paradoxically, I lived more actively back then. Even with assignments piling up, I would go to the movies alone or wander around taking photographs. I believed those little moments were what sustained my everyday life, and thanks to them, every night seemed to take on a different color. I even loved the sensation of drawing a deep breath and feeling the cool air reach the very depths of my lungs. I was capable of dreaming the dream called everyday life.

But it has been a long time since I last felt that way. The gentle sunlight streaming into my room no longer strikes my eyes with the same intensity. The wind that blows past me can no longer wrap me in its embrace.

I cannot say exactly why I lost what I once considered my philosophy of life. Perhaps I have simply grown weary of everyday living itself. That is the best explanation I can offer.

After all, the moment I consciously try to enjoy something, it ceases to feel entirely my own. Conscious effort consumes energy. And as my days have become increasingly crowded with assignments and obligations, I have lost even the smallest measure of freedom I possessed last year. Even when I try to appreciate the simplest pleasures, my already exhausted body refuses to cooperate.

I believe everyday life is the smallest unit of a dream. Seen in that light, perhaps it makes perfect sense that I no longer dream at night. These days, when I step outside Remnant, the chilly air against my skin feels more like a burden than a source of delight.

I have no intention of arriving at some predictable conclusion about learning to enjoy everyday life again so that I can dream once more. For that, I must first acknowledge just how exhausted I am.

Instead, I take out my diary from last year and read through its pages. The words I wrote and the impressions I recorded of ordinary moments offer me a comfort no one else could give. As I revisit the memories of a time when I dreamed so earnestly, I find myself strangely fond of the unfamiliar familiarity of borrowing dreams that my present self can no longer dream.

And so, it is all right if I cannot dream tonight.

My night will probably be just as hazy as ever, and I will likely wake up without a single memory. But that is all right.

I only hope that tomorrow morning, the taste in my mouth will be a little less stale.

Even if I can no longer dream the dream called everyday life, a little longing is enough.