Jack Luo — 7 minute read

Introduction

I keep a dream journal because my morning brain likes to pretend the night was just noise. Those messy notes, written half awake, remind me who I said I wanted to be when I was too tired to perform. In this essay I turn three recurring dreams into three simple rules for living.

Dream one – Sparks

In the first dream I am on a quiet street when a dog lunges through a gate and knocks my father down. I reach for him but hesitate; each repeat of the scene shows me how my delay makes a minor incident dangerous. The lesson is not dramatic heroism—it is five seconds. Step in earlier. Whether it is helping a friend, answering a hard message or starting a project, the difference between pain and progress is often a tiny moment of action.

Dream two – Trains and vending machines

The second dream shifts to Chongqing‑like hills and a perfectly on‑time train. Later I wander a lab, meet old friends and watch fireworks fizzle under benches. In a glass office I reach into what looks like a fridge but the machine dispenses lighters and fireworks instead of food. It makes me laugh and wince: I say I want nourishment but I keep picking sparks. The rule here is to choose real fuel over flashy distractions. Take the train instead of the slot machine. Make the call instead of scrolling.

Dream three – Shields

The final dream is a road trip. After hours of driving a girl greets me and says simply, “I like you; let’s talk more.” A stranger hands me the keys to a car and hints at an unspoken price. I return the keys, knock on a heavy unmarked door and state what I want. The door opens without applause. This dream teaches me to distinguish gifts that shrink me from support that expands me and to ask cleanly for what I need.

Methods and practice

At the end of my notes I lay out a simple method: catch one detail before your phone tells you who to be, then make a small change you will still feel at night. Every evening I ask three questions: did I step in early or wait; did I choose nourishment over sparks; did I model the pause I want others to take. Most days I miss something, but the loop stays short so I can try again without turning my life into a performance. The page remembers; the work earns tomorrow.