A Sarajevo Dream

Last night, I had a strange dream.

When I closed my eyes, time stopped being a straight line and turned into a shattered mirror. As I wandered between the pieces, I found myself confronting my past, my inner self, and a longing that had never fully faded. My brother—whom I haven’t spoken to in years—was there with me. In real life, our paths haven’t crossed in a long time. Words, once shared freely, had given way to walls of silence.

But in the dream, it was as if nothing had ever gone wrong. Everything flowed easily, like a river that remembered its course.

We were planning a trip together. Among all the cities we considered, only one emerged clearly: Sarajevo.

It didn’t feel like a coincidence or a random choice. Instead, it felt like my subconscious had pulled out a feeling I had long been carrying—quietly—and dressed it in the name of a city.

Sarajevo...

A place that has lived through pain and division, yet endured with resilience and memory.

Perhaps it mirrored my own inner turbulence, my silent wounds, and my quiet wish to reconnect.

There were other people in the dream too, but their faces were blurred, like fogged glass.

Yet one figure stood out: I think it was my father.

We lost him last year.

He was there in the background, watching silently. He didn’t speak. But his gaze spoke volumes.

It felt like he was telling me, “Time is moving on, don’t wait too long.”

Time Flows Differently in Dreams

In dreams, time bends. Reality softens. Feelings become sharper, purer.

As I sat with my brother, the things left unsaid in waking life—resentments, regrets, silences—didn’t exist.

It felt as if everything had passed under a bridge.

For a while—who knows how long—we simply made plans to travel.

But dreams often whisper more than travel plans. They hint at emotional journeys yet to begin.

In truth, I wasn’t planning a trip to a city.

I was reaching for a connection.

One that had been cut, forgotten perhaps, but still intact at its core.

Sarajevo: A Silent Witness to History

Sarajevo is not just a city in the Balkans.

It is a living memory of how the human spirit can break and still rebuild.

Its narrow cobblestone streets echo with Ottoman heritage, while the stern Austro-Hungarian architecture cuts across like scars.

But those scars are not only aesthetic. They represent centuries of coexistence, separation, conflict—and resilience.

Sarajevo tells the story of a place where people of different cultures once lived side by side.

Mosques, churches, and synagogues rise from the same earth, not far from one another.

And then came the wars, the sieges, the tragedies of the 1990s.

But the city stood back up.

Like some relationships do.

Maybe that’s why my dream led me there.

Because Sarajevo is, in some ways, just like my inner landscape:

Hurt, but healing.

Wounded, but willing.

Full of history, but still open to the future.

This city, often described as a symbol of multiculturalism in history books, reminded me of something deeply personal:

The power of connection.

To reconcile, to understand, to rebuild.

Waking Up, Still There

When I opened my eyes in the morning, the dream hadn’t left me.

Its weight was still on my chest.

I was no longer asleep, yet still somewhere in Sarajevo.

Still next to my brother.

Still watched over by my father’s silent gaze.

I picked up my phone and stared at it for a long time.

I searched for my brother’s name in my contacts, then hovered over the back button.

I didn’t call.

But I thought about it.

And maybe that’s the beginning.

Some relationships are like cities that have seen war.

Not of bullets or bombs, but of cold silences and broken trust.

And then something happens—a dream, perhaps.

And the walls begin to crack.

The Language of Dreams

This dream was a map.

Not of where to go, but of where I’ve been, where I am, and where I long to be.

The subconscious often speaks the truths we mute during the day.

Mine whispered something like this:

You still care.

You still hope.

I wanted to go to Sarajevo in my dream not because it was exotic or new—but because it reflected me.

A city both fragile and fierce.

Hurt, but not hopeless.

A city that hasn’t forgotten the past, but still dares to believe in healing.

Will It Ever Become Real?

Maybe one day I’ll actually go to Sarajevo.

Maybe I’ll walk those streets, maybe alone, maybe not.

Maybe my brother will be beside me—or maybe just in spirit.

But perhaps that’s not the point.

Maybe the journey doesn’t need to be to a place.

Maybe it’s enough to take the step inward.

To open a door.

To try.

Life is short. Silence is long.

But a single dream can be deep enough to loosen the knot of a lifetime.

So I don’t want to forget this dream.

I don’t want to dismiss it as a fleeting image of the night.

I want to see it as a sign, a calling—

a hope.

Because maybe some dreams aren’t just meant to be dreamed while sleeping.

Maybe some dreams are meant to be lived.