Whenever I have a vivid dream, I make it a point to record it with a voice recorder. This habit has been with me for about ten years. The reason dates back to my university days, when I was plagued by recurring nightmares. The content of these dreams was always the same: for some unknown reason, even though I was already a university student, I had to go back and spend time in high school.
It was strange, of course. If I was already in university, why would I need to be in high school? If I had to retake the college entrance exam, it would be to aim for a better university, sure—but even then, there’d be no need to go back to high school. That would only apply if I were redoing the entire curriculum. Yet, in these dreams, I was relentlessly dragged back into high school, forced to spend time there. I’ve had this dream so often that I remember every version of it vividly.
If this dream had only lasted a few nights, I wouldn’t have thought to record it. But it continued for years, appearing without reason—when I entered university, after I graduated, during my leave of absence, and even during my military service. The only time the nightmare finally stopped was when I moved to Seoul and started working as a CTO. Until then, I couldn’t escape this idiotic nightmare.
Each time I had the dream, it felt more vivid and detailed. The scenes and events became more complete, as if I were watching a memory from a past life—or perhaps from a parallel universe. It was a strange world of dreams, endlessly recurring with only slight variations.
Aside from the recurring dream of being dragged back to high school, there was also a dream where I became a competitive swimmer. In that dream, my friends and I were successful athletes—probably even winning medals. We were tall, well-built, and popular. When we gathered, the girlfriends people brought along changed constantly. Some of us were wealthy enough to get into trouble without ever ending up in jail.
In that dream, I experienced strange events. On our way to a swimming meet, we were all riding in a truck down a steep hill. I was in the passenger seat and noticed puppies sitting fearlessly in the road. Instead of staying in the truck, I jumped out to shoo the puppies away. They slowly moved, and the driver gently alternated between braking and coasting down the hill.
Then the truck suddenly lost its brakes and slid uncontrollably down the hill, crashing into a building wall. The impact caused a fire, and although the driver escaped, many inside didn’t make it out. Only a few survived, including a girl I had once dated.
I had to watch helplessly as dozens of people I knew burned to death in front of me.
The driver—my friend—seemed to suffer some kind of mental breakdown afterward. Meanwhile, I reconnected with the girl who survived the flames. Looking back, I think I took advantage of her. I must have been a real scumbag in that world. Her whole family had died in that fire, and she was the only one left.
Later, we realized the incident had been intentional. Someone was targeting us—these out-of-control, reckless friends. More attacks followed. Whenever I had this dream, I would wake up gasping for air, as if I had been exposed to acid gas. I'd run outside just to breathe. I never had time to think about who was targeting us—my only instinct was survival. I don’t even know if the others made it out.
In one part of the dream, while waiting outside a courthouse for another friend to be released, we couldn’t help but act like degenerates again. A more "influential" friend of ours, who worked inside the legal system, came out and scolded us, saying, “You couldn’t even hold it together for a few minutes?”
There’s a strange sense of déjà vu in these dreams. The building where the truck crash occurred? I’d dreamed of that building before. I even remember what it was meant for—it was a popular street with cafés and workshops, a quiet area where people gathered. It was a place I had spent a lot of time, even bought a house. I must’ve really liked that building.
Sometimes, dreams feel like puzzle pieces coming together. That’s why, even though I know it’s meaningless, I record what I remember for five or ten minutes every morning. Could these be memories of a past life? If so, and if I committed such terrible acts, maybe I do deserve some punishment.
There have been times in life when I felt drawn to places or moments as if my soul remembered them. One such place was Bukchon in Seoul. I later found out my father had lived there as a child—right near Anguk Station. Did I somehow instinctively recognize the land of my father's youth? I still love Bukchon, and nearby areas like Insadong, Gyedong, and even Hyehwa. The entire area feels like home.
Could the dream have taken place there too? There aren’t many places in Seoul that fit the description of a café-workshop-house all in one, aside from a few spots in northern Seoul. Is there a connection between that place and my dreams? I don’t know. But I keep dreaming of that area and the stupid things my friends and I did there. Just like the nightmare of endlessly returning to school.
I don’t know if these dreams are just repeated nightmares or if they mean something more. Maybe I’ll never know—not even on the day I die. But by recording them, I feel like I’m experiencing someone else’s life. It’s like becoming a detective investigating a case, exploring and researching the world of dreams.
If there’s a small joy in an otherwise murky life, it’s this: turning a sticky nightmare into a kind of mystery story, documenting it, and reflecting on it. Maybe I’ll find a clue to another life in there. Maybe I’ll turn it into a novel someday. Or maybe the emotions I felt in those dreams will influence the rest of my life in some unexpected way.