I have stopped dreaming. I don’t write of what occurs in REM sleep, but what has powered my imagination. I have noticed, over the past 5 years, as my ability to write stories, compose music, draw, author my videos, and wax poetic, has severely diminished in potency and frequency. The wellspring that once gushed forth has been reduced to a trickle. 
You may say that you see signs of creativity here and there, but all you are seeing is the remaining pool that still exists. That, too, will evaporate. 
Gossamer wings, and stars that sing, a syncopated rhythmn. Empty wells, like old sea shells, echo the wisdom once filled them. 🙁
In place of my dreams live certainties. These are unpleasant dooms that are grounded in mire. I have no wings, I never grew them, so there is no soaring for me. Escape is a slogging trog forward, a swamp of sadness, if I may borrow that term from one of my favorite authors.
My mind is exhausted. My heart begs for rest. Sometimes I ponder the notion that I might someday welcome death, if only because it will grant my body its solitude without the accompanying loneliness. I would be outside the reach of grasping hands and commanding voices. 
That is not to say I actively seek out death, only that I am beginning to understand why some welcome it so readily. For now, however, my dreamless sleep will remain only in my mind’s eye. 
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.