u/Otherwise-Pop-1311

i have been unable to find much on google about what i experience

firstly, I do not lucid dream. I believe the dreams i have are real and am not aware of my real 9-5 life when I dream.

I do not know I am dreaming and I do not know I am a real person in the real world temporarily accessing the dream world (assuming this is your definition of lucid dream). this needs to be clarified.

however, something so strange is happening. I am accessing memories, having thoughts, and inner dialogue in the dream world. it's like i have entered into someone else's body and get to experience their life and memories. for example, i am reminded of something and can access memory recall inside the dream. i am completely undecided if they are memories of previous dreams, or unique memories, or memories i am simply not aware of. even in real life, when you remember something, where does the memory exist within you?

I think I can control my thoughts within the dream, and I do have some control over them.

problem 2. recurring dream of a person. gets doubly strange when inside the dream I see them, and tell them I dream about them. neither dream is lucid.

for example can you think thoughts and ideas like you do in real life, but it happen in the dream.

can you think about the dream? for example, "i know this is a dream, I will wake up and go back to work in the real world in about 30 minutes" but you think it in your mind

Nootropics - to boost mental function.

They sell a few too many libido supplements that are not quite nootropics.

It started, as these things often do, with a plastic racket almost as tall as I was, and a father who saw a future I never asked for. I was six. That summer, while other kids scraped their knees on pavement and learned to ride bikes, I was enrolled in my first tennis bootcamp. I remember the heat bouncing off the hard courts, the blisters on my small hands, the coach’s voice like a metronome: “Again. Again. Again.”

Every year after that, the ritual repeated itself. Bootcamp in June, elite clinic in July, travel tournament every weekend my father could swap shifts at the warehouse. The money hemorrhaged quietly at first—a few hundred here for a new racket, a few hundred there for a private lesson—and then, as I grew, it became a flood. My parents didn’t go on vacations. We didn’t have a new car. When the kitchen linoleum peeled up at the corners, we taped it down. Every cent was funneled into the dream: me, on a sun-bleached court, holding a trophy that would somehow validate all of it.

By twelve, I was good. Not prodigy good, not national-headlines good, but good enough to keep the hope alive. I had a regional ranking and a local newspaper clipping my mother laminated and kept in her purse. That clipping became a talisman, a silent accusation every time I double-faulted. I’d see her hand drift unconsciously toward her bag during matches, as if just touching it through the leather could correct my backhand.

The truth is, I never had time to train properly, even though training consumed my life. That sounds like a contradiction, but it isn’t. I trained constantly—drills before school, fitness after, technique on weekends—but it was all reactive, frantic, a desperate patching of holes that only multiplied. My serve was a mechanical horror my first coach had baked into my muscle memory. We spent thousands trying to rebuild it at a famous academy in Florida one summer, only for my elbow to blow out six months later. Recovery took a year. By then, the other kids had grown, their games now sharp and adult while mine still flinched like a startled animal.

Still, I pushed. The tuition at the tennis-focused prep school was astronomical, but my parents refinanced the house. I didn’t know that then; I was too busy icing my knees and staring at endless video analysis, watching my own flaws on repeat like a grim highlight reel. College tennis flickered on the horizon—a Division II program sniffed around—but the scholarship money wasn’t there, and anyway, the grinding injury cycle had already started its endgame. Stress fractures in my back. A hip that clicked every time I pivoted. I played through it all, because stopping felt like lighting a match to a fortune. Thousands? God, if only it were just thousands. By the time I was twenty-two, the running joke—no one laughing—was that I was a six-figure money pit, a walking investment with negative returns.

The burnout didn’t arrive like a storm. It came like rust. Somewhere around twenty-seven, I realized I hadn’t enjoyed a single point in years. The sound of a ball off the strings didn’t register as sport; it registered as a threat. Every missed shot was a spreadsheet cell flashing red. Every win was just a temporary stay of execution. I’d stopped dreaming of Centre Court long ago. Now I was dreaming of an office job, a cubicle, anything with air conditioning and an absence of this gnawing, metallic anxiety. But I had no other skills. Tennis had eaten every other version of me. I’d missed prom, college parties, friendships that weren’t transactional. I had the emotional intelligence of a teenager and the body of a much older man.

So I kept going. I played Futures qualifiers in front of three people and a bored tournament director. I spent my own money now—credit cards, mostly—on coaching I no longer listened to, stringing that cost more than my weekly groceries, travel to remote cities where I’d lose in straight sets and sit in a Motel 6 bathtub wondering what I was doing. The passion wasn’t just gone; it had been replaced by something worse: indifference laced with contempt. I’d stand at the baseline and think, “I don’t even like this. I’ve never liked this.” But I didn’t know how to stop, because stopping meant admitting that everything—the money, the time, my mother’s weary smile, my father’s silent, exhausted hope—was a burial without a body.

My career ended not with a dramatic injury or a teary press conference, but on a Tuesday afternoon at a small tournament in Tulsa. I was thirty-five. I’d dragged myself there, as I had hundreds of times, running on caffeine and a deep, physical exhaustion that felt like a permanent flu. It was the first round of qualifying. My opponent was an eighteen-year-old with a big forehand and the kind of oblivious confidence I remembered vaguely from childhood. The sun was high, the court was empty except for a handful of indifferent spectators, and somewhere in the middle of the second set, down 6-2, 3-0, I simply... stopped. A ball came to my backhand. I watched it bounce. I watched it bounce again. I turned, walked to my bag, and zipped up my racket. I didn’t shake hands. I just kept walking, through the chain-link gate, across the parking lot, into a car that would need a jump start because I’d left the lights on.

I never called it retirement. I just never showed up again.

Now, at thirty-six, I sit in a rented room and try to understand the shape of the emptiness. The regret isn’t loud. It’s a low hum, the soundtrack of an entire life spent running toward a finish line I was never meant to cross. I don’t miss tennis. I don’t watch it. When Wimbledon comes on, I change the channel. The thought of picking up a racket makes me physically nauseous. What I mourn isn’t the game—it’s the life I might have built if someone had let me be ordinary. I mourn the boy who wanted to draw comic books, who was told drawing was a waste of time. I mourn the friendships I never made, the knowledge I never learned, the softness I never allowed myself.

The ledger is irreconcilable. A quarter of a million dollars, easily, vaporized over three decades. A father’s retirement fund, a mother’s dreams, all sunk into a player who never broke the top 1000. But the real cost can’t be calculated. I gave the game everything, and in return, it took everything, leaving me with only this: a profound and utterly unshakeable failure, and the quiet, corrosive knowledge that I never even loved it. Not once. Not ever.

---

He had nothing to show for it. No titles worth remembering. No ranking that mattered. No love left for the game.He never picked up a racket again.Sometimes, late at night, the regret hits like a clean backhand down the line. He thinks about the boy of six who just wanted to hit a yellow ball and smile. He thinks about all the paths he could have taken if tennis hadn’t swallowed every available hour and dollar. He thinks about how he never really got to choose—he was simply on the track, year after year, until the track ended.Now Alex works in sales. He avoids tennis broadcasts. When friends ask about his “tennis days,” he gives a tight smile and changes the subject. Inside, the story still aches: a lifetime of effort, sacrifice, and love poured into something that quietly, relentlessly, slipped through his fingers.He never became that successful. He never even came close. And worst of all, he no longer cared.

Has anyone else had this realisation? This was likely the real use for them

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This isn't a troll post.

Not digesting food, not moving your bowels after every meal, things congest in the colon and this creates irritation.

The irritation stimulates short term urges such as sex drive.

Fixing your digestion is one of the best things you can do to fix your desires. People feel so much better doing things like fasting, eating lighter in summer and they are far more relaxed. If you have days of meals in your body it puts pressure on your prostate, stimulating sexual urge

so most people really saw the wrong version?

Criterion looks a lot better, grainier, a little more stranger