My Dream are just Dream

My Dream Are Just Dream:

The night is quiet, but my mind is loud. Lying on my bed, staring at the cracked ceiling above me, I can almost see the stars I’ve been chasing for years. Every night, I close my eyes and see myself living the life I’ve always wanted — a life where success, happiness, and peace are no longer just illusions. But when the morning comes, reality pulls me back, cold and merciless, whispering the same cruel truth: “Your dreams are just dreams.”

I grew up believing that dreams were promises waiting to be fulfilled. My father used to tell me, “If you want something badly enough, you can make it real.” I clung to those words as though they were my lifeline. I dreamt of becoming a writer, of telling stories that touched souls, of having my books stacked on shelves where strangers could pick them up and feel less alone.

But as I grew older, I realized dreams are not as simple as wishes. They demand sacrifice, resilience, and opportunities — things I didn’t always have.

I remember the first time I told someone about my dream. It was in high school, during a group discussion. While others talked about becoming doctors, engineers, or business tycoons, I shyly admitted, “I want to be a writer.”

The room fell silent. Then laughter broke out.

“Writer?” one of my classmates mocked. “You’ll starve before you sell a single book.”

I smiled to hide my embarrassment, but something inside me cracked that day. Still, I didn’t give up. I filled dozens of notebooks with stories, scribbled late into the night when the rest of the world was asleep. Writing was my escape, my sanctuary, my way of surviving in a world that constantly told me I wasn’t enough.

But passion alone doesn’t always pay bills. Life kept pulling me in directions I didn’t choose. My family struggled financially, and after graduation, I had to take a job I didn’t love just to support them. Day after day, I sat at a desk staring at endless spreadsheets, my creativity slowly suffocating under the weight of routine.

Every evening, when I walked home from work, I passed by a small bookstore. Through its glass windows, I could see shelves filled with the dreams of people who’d made it. Sometimes, I’d step inside, running my fingers along the spines of novels, inhaling the faint smell of paper and ink. I’d imagine my name printed on one of those covers, sitting quietly among the greats.

But then I’d remember the unpaid bills waiting at home, the empty fridge, my mother’s worried face, and reality would crash back down like a tidal wave.

People say you should never give up on your dreams, but they rarely talk about the cost of holding on. I’ve lost sleep, skipped meals, and sacrificed friendships just trying to make my dream real. And yet, after all these years, here I am — still standing in the same place, still working the same job, still writing stories no one reads.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been foolish.

Maybe some dreams are not meant to come true. Maybe they’re just… dreams — beautiful illusions designed to keep us moving, to give us hope when everything else falls apart.

And yet, no matter how much I try to let go, something inside me refuses to die.

Last week, I had one of those nights where sleep refused to come. I sat by my window, staring at the city lights, feeling small and invisible. I thought about giving up writing for good, about throwing away my notebooks and accepting the life I’ve been handed.

But then, a strange thing happened. I opened one of my old notebooks — the very first one I used in high school. Its pages were yellowed, its corners bent, but the words inside still carried the fire of my sixteen-year-old self. I read through a short story I’d written back then, and for the first time in years, I smiled.

Because those words reminded me of why I started.

I didn’t write for fame or money. I didn’t write to prove anyone wrong. I wrote because it made me feel alive, because it gave me a voice when I felt invisible, because somewhere out there, maybe one person needed to read my story to feel less alone.

That night, I made myself a promise: even if my dreams never come true, I won’t stop dreaming.

Maybe my books will never line the shelves of fancy bookstores. Maybe no literary agent will ever send me a congratulatory email. Maybe I’ll remain unknown to the world.

But if, one day, even a single stranger reads my words and feels understood, then maybe my dream wasn’t wasted after all.

I’ve realized that sometimes, the value of a dream isn’t in achieving it — it’s in the person you become while chasing it. My stories have shaped me, healed me, and given me a reason to keep going on days when everything felt meaningless.

Yes, my dreams are just dreams… but they are mine. And that’s enough.

Every night, before I fall asleep, I still imagine holding my first published book in my hands. I still picture standing in front of an audience, reading from a story I once scribbled at 2 a.m. I still hear my father’s voice telling me I can do it.

Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe it won’t.

But tonight, I’ll keep dreaming.

Because sometimes, even dreams that don’t come true can save us.