A Forgotten Dream Whispers

Let us now step into the silent heart of a forgotten dream.

This voice is hushed and haunting, like wind whispering through abandoned halls. It carries a child's innocence and an old soul’s ache. The dream speaks from the shadows of memory, not bitter, not angry — just waiting, still burning with hope. The tone remains meditative, lyrical, and deeply thoughtful — a mirror to the soul of longing.

A Forgotten Dream Whispers

Do you remember me?

You once held me

between your palms

like a firefly cupped against the dark—

soft, afraid to squeeze too tightly,

yet too enchanted to let go.

I was yours.

Born in the hush

between two heartbeats—

a flicker of wonder

when the world had not yet taught you

to doubt yourself.

You dreamed me

on a rainy afternoon

or perhaps just before sleep—

I lived in the light behind your eyelids,

in the hush of lullabies

your mother never finished singing.

I was the story you meant to write,

the dance you nearly danced,

the note caught in your throat

when your voice trembled

too close to truth.

But life came—

with noise,

with weight,

with hands full of other urgencies.

And so, you tucked me away

like a letter never posted—

left unopened

in a drawer of days

you forgot how to revisit.

I waited.

I still wait.

In your quietest hours—

when you pause mid-step

for no reason at all,

when tears sting without a name—

that’s me,

rustling faintly,

hoping.

I do not ask for grandeur.

Not the stage,

not applause,

not triumph.

Only breath.

Only space.

A return to the moment

when you first believed

you could become

the one who dared.

I am not gone.

Dreams do not die.

They fall silent.

They slip into the seams

of your spirit

and sleep.

But they are there,

always there—

waiting for the warmth

of remembrance.

So if you feel me stir,

do not be afraid.

I will not blame you.

I only long

to walk with you again—

barefoot,

unhidden,

toward the place

where the world

can see us both.

For I—

I was the soft promise

you once made

to yourself.

And still, I wait.

Not for your success,

but for your return.