The Dream-Seller Speaks

The Dream-Seller Speaks

Come closer, wanderer—

step gently through the hush of this place.

Here, no voices are raised,

no signs cry out in hunger;

only the soft rustle

of longing turning pages in the air.

Yes, you may look—

though not with hurried eyes.

Dreams, you see, are shy creatures.

They bloom only under silence,

and breathe best

when cradled in the warmth of yearning.

I have watched you from afar—

the ache behind your gaze,

the dreams you clutch

like worn-out coins

in a wallet full of forgetting.

You’re not alone.

They come, the seekers—

old men with palms creased by regrets,

women whose eyes carry

the memory of lullabies

they once meant to sing,

children with stardust still wet

on their lashes.

And they all ask the same:

"Do you sell dreams here?"

I do not sell.

I trade.

Bring me your faded ones—

the dreams turned bitter from neglect,

the ones that wilted

under too much noise,

or were drowned

in someone else’s thunder.

Place them here—

gently, if you can—

on this table of woven time.

In return,

I shall offer you the rarest of seeds.

Not dreams that dazzle and disappear—

but the ones that wait,

patient as a well in drought,

that carry light within

like embers waiting

for your breath.

Dreams of beginning again.

Dreams stitched from silence.

Dreams made of soft rebellion,

of faith held even

when the sky won’t answer.

But beware—

these are not trinkets of fantasy.

These dreams carry work.

They ask for tending,

for soil, and sorrow, and sometimes tears.

They are fragile only

to the touch of indifference.

If you choose one,

promise me this:

You’ll believe in it

even on the mornings

when it refuses to bloom.

And you—

you must water it with your stillness.

Let it take root in the cracks

you thought too broken

to ever flower again.

Only then

will it begin to sing.

So come, dream-seeker.

Look not just with your eyes,

but with your ache.

Choose not the brightest,

but the truest.

And when you leave,

go gently.

Carry your dream like a lit candle

through the corridors of your life.

It will flicker.

It may dim.

But if you keep walking with it—

someday,

it will become your sun.