Where Do All the Dreams Go?

I have a system. A ritual. A borderline religious routine that would make monks pause mid-chant and take notes. Supplements taken — not too late, not too early — I’m haggling with my subconscious over terms and conditions. Meditation before bed, slow breaths, sinking down through layers of noise until it’s just me and the dark. And then the mantra, always the mantra, looping like a scratched CD in my skull: I remember my dreams. I write them down. I remember my dreams. I write them down. I remember my dreams— Until sleep takes me mid-sentence, like being politely but firmly mugged by the void. And usually? It works. Usually, I wake up and lie perfectly still, like a corpse that’s suddenly developed a strong interest in dream retrieval procedures. I let the threads fall — soft, invisible strands drifting down from wherever dreams go when they’re done with you. And I catch them. One by one. Tug them carefully. Rebuild the night. A face. A place. A feeling that doesn’t exist in waking life but lingers anyway. Then I grab my phone — Notes app open, thumbs moving like my life depends on it — pinning each dream down before it wriggles free and dissolves. But this morning? Nothing. Not even scraps. No threads. No images. Not even the ghost of a feeling. Just… A blank. A vast, echoing nothing. My mind is an abandoned warehouse with flickering lights and absolutely no stock. Nada. Zilch. A big, fat, mocking void. I may as well take my Dream Queen crown off and lob it straight in the bin. Ninety days. Ninety consecutive days of dream recall. A streak so strong it deserves sponsorship, a loyalty card, and probably its own documentary. The last time I had a dreamless night, I earned it — too many drinks, a reckless evening at The Plough, brain pickled, memories floating somewhere in the fumes of cheap wine and poor decisions. Fair enough. That one was on me. But last night? I did everything right. I was good. Responsible. Devoted. And still — nothing. It’s infuriating. Unreasonably so. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, something during the day will trigger it. A smell, a sound, a weirdly shaped lamppost — and suddenly, boom — a fragment comes rushing back like it’s been waiting behind a door. But not today. Today my brain is a foggy wasteland. Thick. Unyielding. A grey soup of absolutely sod all. Bastard brain. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on it. That’s what people would say, isn’t it? Relax. Let it happen naturally. But they don’t get it. I need this. It’s not a hobby anymore. It’s… something else. Something itchier. Hungrier. A quiet, twitching dependency. Some people sneak junk food in the dark, wrappers rustling like guilty confessions. Some need a drink before their feet even touch the floor. Others chase that gym high, punishing their bodies into obedience. Me? I need my dream fix. No calories. No hangover. Just psychological instability if I miss a dose. And when I don’t get it… Something’s off. The whole day tilts slightly sideways. I’m sloppy. Disconnected. Moving through the world like I’ve been assembled incorrectly. Letters go to the wrong houses. Numbers blur. I second-guess everything. At some point, inevitably, someone comes charging down the road after me, waving a misdelivered envelope like it’s a formal declaration of war. “THIS ISN’T MINE!” I apologise, of course. Profusely. But inside, I’m thinking: This wouldn’t have happened if I’d had my dreams. Because dreams sharpen me. They anchor me. They make the world feel… aligned. And without them? I’m just… drifting. I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. My first dream is still lodged in me, clear as glass. I’m standing in a pitch-black room. Not dim — absolute darkness. The kind that presses in on your eyes. The only light comes from an aquarium in the centre, glowing an eerie, unnatural golden yellow. And inside it — My nan. Folded. Cramped. Too big for the space, like someone’s packed her away incorrectly. She’s struggling to breathe, hands pushing weakly against the glass, frantically tapping, mouth opening and closing in silent panic. I try to scream. Nothing comes out. The darkness eats the sound before it exists. I wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, the image scorched into me. Two weeks later, she dies. Breathing-related illness. Make of that what you will. But something roots itself in me after that. Something deep and stubborn. A curiosity. An obsession. A quiet, creeping belief that dreams aren’t just… nonsense. They’re something. By secondary school, I’m keeping a dream diary. Religious about it. Every morning, without fail. A small notebook — purple and pink, splattered with nail varnish like some sort of glittery crime scene. I write everything. And I mean everything. The grim reaper who follows me from dream to dream like a patient stalker. The beach — God, that beach — where I’m running across a shifting sea of dead bodies. They rise beneath me, arms exploding from the sand, grabbing, clutching, trying to drag me down into the mass. I can feel them. Cold. Heavy. Insistent. And behind me, always, the reaper. Not rushing. Not panicked. Just… certain. I climb. Scramble. Claw my way up a mountain of corpses, lungs burning, legs screaming — Then darkness. I wake up soaked through, heart hammering. Not fear. Not exactly. Something sharper. Adrenaline. Curiosity. A craving. I want to go back. There are lucid dreams too. Astral projections that feel more real than waking life. I move, touch, exist with a clarity that reality itself sometimes lacks. I tell my parents, desperate for them to understand. “It felt real,” I insist. “I was there.” They sigh, tired, dismissive. “It’s just a dream, Amanda. Go back to sleep.” Just a dream. As if that explains anything. The diary is gone now. Burnt. I still don’t fully know why. Some dramatic, hormonal moment of symbolism, probably. Or a brief but committed descent into madness. Either way — gone. Reduced to ash and whatever memories I managed to keep. Now it’s all digital. My iPhone. Notes app. Eight years’ worth of dreams stacked neatly in glowing text. A catalogue of the bizarre, the unsettling, the impossible. Gold dust. Useless to anyone else. Everything to me. So mornings like this… They hit hard. Like something’s been taken. Like I’ve been cut off from a part of myself that I rely on more than I’d like to admit. I sit there longer than usual, stubbornly waiting, as if the dreams might arrive late, flustered, apologising for the delay. Nothing comes. Just that same thick, silent fog. I can’t help but wonder where they go. The lost dreams. Do they dissolve completely? Evaporate into nothingness like breath on cold air? Or are they still there, hovering just out of reach? Tangled somewhere in the back of my mind, waiting for the right thread to be pulled? Maybe they’re piling up somewhere. A vast, unseen archive of everything I’ve forgotten. Whole worlds sitting in storage, untouched, unremembered. Or maybe — They’re not gone at all. Just… withheld. By the time I’m out the door, I’ve mostly accepted it. Mostly. Maybe it doesn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe a night without dreams is just that — a night without dreams. Normal. Harmless. Forgettable. But it matters to me. Because this is my thing. My strange, vivid, slightly unhinged corner of existence. And I’m not ready to let it go. So no — I’m not throwing the crown away. Not today. I straighten it. Adjust it slightly. Even if it feels a bit… crooked. A bit underserved. A bit fragile. Because I’m the Dream Queen. And dreamless night or not — I’m still wearing it.