Fading into the Dream.

My thoughts are starting to feel like a labyrinth, twisting and turning in every direction, but each passage leads to another dead end, another fragment of something I can’t quite piece together. There are moments when I look at the world around me, and everything feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, like I’m losing touch with reality itself. I try to hold on, to grab hold of something that makes sense, but it all slips away, like sand through a sieve. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just caught in some endless dream, trapped in a cycle of existence that I can’t escape. What if we’re all asleep right now? What if our whole lives are just a dream, a simulation created by forces beyond our understanding, forces that we’re too small to even comprehend? I don’t know how to explain it, but there are moments—fragments of time—when everything feels too perfect, too precise, as if it’s been crafted. And that thought gnaws at me, makes me feel like I’m in a world where nothing is real, where nothing is truly mine.

What if we are just souls, living in bodies we didn’t choose, controlled by forces we can’t see or understand? What if we’re all just playing out a script, following paths that have already been laid out for us, walking along roads that were never meant to be ours to begin with? I wonder, sometimes, if we’re even aware of what’s happening, or if we’re just unconscious players, moving through our lives like marionettes, our strings pulled by something, someone, outside of ourselves. If that’s true, then why do I feel so disconnected? So distant from everything? Why do I feel like I’m already drifting away from the world, like the edges of reality are fading, blurring into something darker? The worst part is, I can’t remember when it started—when I began to feel this way, when I first felt the shift, the subtle cracking of something inside me, like I’ve been slowly coming undone without even knowing it.

And then there are the dreams. God, the dreams. They’re not like anything I’ve ever known. There are times when I wake up from them, gasping for breath, my heart racing, my body drenched in cold sweat, and I wonder if I’ve even woken up at all. The dream world has started to feel more real than the waking one. I’ll be running, as fast as I can, my heart pounding in my chest, but no matter how fast I go, my legs feel like lead. It’s like I’m moving through molasses—my feet dragging, my body exhausted, but the fear pushing me forward. Whatever it is that’s chasing me, I can never see it clearly, but I know it’s there. I can feel it—its presence, its weight, the sickening pull of it as it inches closer. Every time I think I’m safe, I look behind me, and it’s right there, just out of sight, but I can sense it, feel it closing in. The fear is real. It floods through me, flooding my veins with ice. But no matter how fast I run, no matter how hard I try to escape, I never get away. The terror grows, my pulse spikes, but in the end, it’s always the same—just as the darkness consumes me, I wake up, gasping, terrified, only to find myself in another kind of nightmare.

The worst part of the dreams is not just the feeling of being chased, but the sense of being trapped—trapped in a world I can’t escape, trapped in a reality that keeps slipping away from me. I wake up in my bed, but I’m not sure if I’m really awake or if I’m still caught in the dream, still running, still being hunted. The lines between sleep and wakefulness have started to blur. There’s a sensation now—one I can’t shake—that I’m never fully awake, never truly here. I’ll look at the world around me, and it feels like it’s fading, like I’m watching it through a fogged window, distant and unreachable. The faces of people I know, the places I go, they seem so far away, and I can’t touch them. I can’t feel them. It’s like I’m fading away, like I’m being erased from existence, but no one else seems to notice. Maybe I’ve already faded, and no one can see me anymore. Maybe I’m just a shadow of what I once was. And the worst part is, I’m not sure if I’ve ever been anything more than that—a shadow, drifting in and out of existence.

I try to remember who I am, but every time I reach for a memory, it slips out of my grasp like smoke. It’s all so fragile—like if I hold on to it too tightly, it will shatter. I start to question my own reality, wonder if I’m even real. I feel like I’m becoming a spectator in my own life, like I’m watching someone else live it, someone else making all the choices, someone else breathing in the air, moving through the motions, and I’m just standing by, powerless, watching it happen. I can’t shake the feeling that none of this matters. That everything is fading. That the life I’m living isn’t even mine, that I’m just stuck here, stuck in a place where I don’t belong, surrounded by people who don’t know me, don’t see me.

And then there’s sleep paralysis. That cold, suffocating state between sleep and wakefulness, where I know I’m awake, but my body refuses to move. I can feel the weight of the blankets on me, the cold air in the room, but I can’t move. I’m trapped—locked in my own body, powerless to do anything about it. I can feel my heart racing, my pulse quickening, but it’s like my body is frozen in place, and no matter how much I try, I can’t break free. It’s worse than any nightmare I’ve ever had, worse than being chased by shadows or falling into endless pits. Because in that moment, I know something is there, just beyond my sight, watching me. It’s always there. I can’t see it, but I can feel it, like a presence looming over me, waiting, listening, breathing. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even scream. My mind is wide awake, but my body is trapped, and that’s when the terror hits the hardest. I’m so aware—of the darkness, of the weight in the room, of the suffocating silence. And I can’t do anything to fight it. I can’t escape. I can’t even blink.

I don’t know if I’m losing my mind, or if there’s something deeper happening—something darker, something I can’t understand. The paranoia is creeping in again, that feeling that something is wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like the world is closing in on me, like I’m suffocating in this reality, but no one else sees it. No one else feels it. They just keep moving, keep living their lives, while I stand still, caught in the undertow, being dragged further and further under. I look around and wonder if everyone else is seeing the same thing, if they can feel what I feel, or if I’m the only one in this distorted reality.

And then there’s Ren. He’s always been there. He’s my friend, my companion, someone I’ve known since childhood. But lately, I’ve started to question him—question whether he’s real, whether I’m real. No one else can see him, no one else can hear him, and sometimes that terrifies me. Is he just a figment of my imagination? A hallucination, a creation of my mind trying to cope with a reality that’s falling apart? People look at me strange when I talk to him. They don’t hear him. They don’t see him. And I can’t explain it—he feels so real to me. I can hear his voice, see his face, but no one else does. He’s always there, always talking, always laughing, but only in my world. The world I’m starting to believe doesn’t exist. What if I’m losing my mind? What if he’s just another piece of this fractured reality I’ve created to hold on to something, to someone?

Every time I talk to Ren, people stare at me, like I’m a freak, a person out of place, like I’ve crossed some invisible line that they can’t understand. And I wonder if they’re right—if I’m just crazy, if I’ve created this world of shadows and whispers, a world where Ren exists and no one else can see him. I can’t talk to anyone about it, because they don’t understand. They think I’m insane. But what if they’re right? What if I’ve lost touch with reality so completely that I’m now seeing things no one else can? And what if that’s the only truth I’ll ever know—that I’ve become a ghost in my own life, disconnected from everything and everyone, trapped in a world of my own making?

I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know who I am or what I’ve become. I don’t know if I’m still awake or if I’ve fallen deeper into a dream I can’t escape. Every time I try to reach out, every time I try to hold onto something solid, it slips away. I’m fading, piece by piece, and there’s no one left to notice. I don’t know what’s happening to me. But I do know one thing: I’m scared. Scared that I’m losing myself. Scared that none of this is real. And scared that, no matter how hard I try to find my way out, I’m stuck in a place where no one can save me.