When I was growing up, I always had really vivid dreams. Sometimes they seemed relevant to my life, but often they were just bizarre or fun or even scary. Occasionally, I’d decide to keep a dream journal (I’m particularly fond of one entry in which 8-year-old me flies the Millennium Falcon). The journals never stuck, though, because I didn’t really need to write my dreams down to remember them.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped recalling my dreams at all. I always assumed this had to do with sleep cycles, that in adulthood my cycles had changed so that I never woke up at the right time to hold on to anything. Eventually I got over it, and kind of forgot what it was like before (there’s a metaphor in there…).