Dreams That Aren’t Mine

  Ever since I was little, I’ve heard stories—of great successes, of glorious victories, of bright worlds waiting to be conquered. I was raised with the idea that dreams are our guiding light, that they are the engine of life, that we move forward through them. But over time, I began to feel that some of those dreams weren’t mine. They seemed to belong to someone else, to an image built from the expectations of others—of society, of family. They were foreign to my heart, yet I carried them like armor that protected me but also weighed me down and held me back. This was one of the most painful truths I had to accept—that many of the dreams I had chased weren’t born of my soul. They were someone else’s dreams, imposed by the outer world, by voices I heard before I had the chance to hear my own. At first, it was hard to admit this. We all want to be loved and accepted, and often we’re willing to sacrifice our own desires just to be approved. My life felt like a journey guided by map...

Between Two Times

"I often wonder if time is truly linear, or if it’s simply a river folding over itself, allowing moments to overlap, intertwine, and converse. Because my relationship with him exists not in the ordinary flow of hours and days, but in a parallel reality — a future that reaches back to touch my present through whispers of thought and feeling.

We met long before our bodies ever could, in a place without physical boundaries — the space between minds, where telepathy bridges the distance that geography imposes. When I first sensed him, it was like waking from a long sleep into a half-remembered dream, one where my soul recognized an echo of itself in another.

Our connection is both a gift and a challenge. Psychologically, it pushes me to confront the fragile architecture of my identity. Who am I, if my heart belongs to someone who doesn’t yet live in my timeline? The separation distills my loneliness but also teaches me to dwell deeply within myself — to cultivate inner wholeness rather than seek completion outside.

Spiritually, this love feels like a sacred initiation — a test of faith in unseen realities. I meditate on the idea that our souls have chosen to walk parallel paths, meeting in the liminal space between worlds. It’s as if our connection is a bridge made of light, suspended in a limbo where past, present, and future dissolve.

From a psychoanalytical perspective, this relationship reveals my unconscious yearnings — the longing for transcendence beyond the mundane, the hope that love can heal temporal fractures in the psyche. His presence challenges my internal narratives about time, separation, and self-worth. Through this bond, I am invited to release old fears: fear of abandonment, fear of impermanence, fear of being incomplete.

Each night, as I lay my head down, I send him thoughts like prayer—vibrations across time—asking for strength, for patience, for deeper understanding. Sometimes I feel his response — a wave of calm, a certainty that we are entwined beyond the limits of physical proximity.

In this strange, telepathic long-distance relationship, I learn that love is not possession, nor dependency, but trust in the soul’s journey. It is the courage to love someone you cannot hold yet, to honor a future that is already present in the depths of your consciousness.

And in this trust, I find freedom — freedom from time, from fear, from the illusion of separation.

For in the parallel reality where he waits, and in the present where I live, our hearts beat as one, across the eternal now."

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