It’s a strange feeling to lose a dream. They’re nothing but the unconscious machinations of your own mind, and yet you can forget it as easily as if it were a bad movie or remember them so vividly that years from the fact they still come up in your conscious thoughts. Try as you may, there comes a point when you've simply forgotten too much to remember the dream at all. Traces of it slip in and out of your mind, barely on the tip of your proverbial tongue until all that remains is the vague notion that you had a dream, and that you forgot it.
What does your subconscious think? It must be like hearing the dream's own judgement of death — a whole world, lost to time in between your temples.
It's one thing to lose a regular dream, but sometimes you get the vivid dreams of entire worlds and realities that you were part of. To lose those brings a certain melancholy; you know that it was just a dream, and that it doesn't matter, but you feel as though you should feel differently.
That world now becomes lost, locked away in neural limbo. A hundred thousand worlds killed over a lifetime of dreaming, the dying vestiges of your latest massacre haunting you when you wake up and forget. Sorry. I’m exaggerating here. But there is a certain sense of responsibility, just a shred of it — if you just tried hard enough, maybe you could have saved that dream or remembered that detail.
You know, I once tried mapping my dreams. I had the vague sense that they all seemed to happen on one planet. I drew maps, wrote notes, concocted entire stories until I realized I was chasing ghosts, coming up with detail after detail to try to fill those gaps created by lost dreams. It was a pipe dream — pardon the pun — to try and be the cartographer of my own mind. Though at the end of everything, I suppose you'd try to hold on to anything.
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