Some dreams don’t feel like fiction. They arrive with the weight of memory. You wake up disoriented, not by confusion, but by familiarity. Something followed you back. A scent. A voice. A mood that has no name.
You remember a street you’ve never walked, yet know by heart. A doorway that creaks in just the right way. A woman who calls you by a name that isn’t yours, but still feels true. These aren’t scenes. They are fragments of something whole.
What if dreams are not creations of the mind, but recoveries of something left behind? What if memory can reach across timelines, or into versions of yourself that continued in another direction?
This piece reflects on the sensation of waking with longing for a place you’ve never been. A place that feels more like home than the one you returned to. It isn’t about mysticism. It’s about emotional familiarity that resists logic.
For anyone who has felt displaced by morning. For those who carry memories they can’t explain.
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