Inspired by mylife4152.wordpress.com)
They say that when a dream is forgotten, it doesn’t disappear.
It drifts — quietly, softly — into a hidden corner of the universe,
where a mysterious being keeps watch.
They call him The Dream Collector.
No one has ever seen him, but his presence can be felt in the moments between night and dawn —
when your heart aches for something you can’t name,
when a whisper inside you says, “It’s not too late.”
That’s him — returning the dreams you left behind.
Once upon a time, I too forgot my dreams.
Life had grown heavy.
The world had told me to be practical, to stop believing in the impossible.
So I buried my wild hopes beneath layers of responsibility,
telling myself I was just growing up.
But deep inside, a small voice kept echoing — faint, but alive.
“You were made for more.”
I tried to ignore it.
I drowned it with noise, with plans, with pretending.
Until one night — a night when everything felt lost — I saw him.
The Dream Collector came to me not as a man, but as light —
a gentle shimmer that flickered like candle flame.
His eyes held galaxies, and his hands carried jars —
each glowing with tiny golden sparks.
“What are those?” I asked, trembling between fear and wonder.
“Dreams,” he said softly.
“Yours. And everyone else’s.”
He opened one jar, and a swirl of light rose into the sky.
Inside it, I saw fragments of myself —
the child who used to write stories,
the dreamer who believed in magic,
the soul that used to look at the stars and whisper wishes.
Tears filled my eyes.
“I thought they were gone,” I whispered.
He smiled — a smile that felt like sunrise.
“They never left. You did.”
For a long moment, the world was still.
I watched him gather dreams — broken ones, half-remembered ones, the ones people gave up on because life got hard.
He held them with such tenderness, as if each dream still mattered.
“They do matter,” he said, hearing my thoughts.
“Dreams are not about success. They are about becoming.”
“Becoming what?” I asked.
“Becoming who you were before the world told you to stop believing.”
Before leaving, he placed one glowing jar in my hands.
Inside it shimmered a small golden spark — fragile, yet alive.
“This one is yours,” he said.
“It’s been waiting for you.”
I held it close, afraid it might fade again.
But the more I believed in it, the brighter it glowed —
until it filled my chest with warmth, with hope, with light.
When I looked up, he was gone.
Only the sky remained, sprinkled with stars that looked like his jars —
as if he had left pieces of himself behind for anyone willing to look up and remember.
Since that night, I’ve never stopped dreaming.
Even when things fall apart, I remind myself —
somewhere out there, The Dream Collector still keeps watch.
He gathers our forgotten tomorrows
and returns them when we are brave enough to ask for them back.
✨ “Dreams never die — they wait for the day your heart believes again.”
So tonight, if you feel lost,
if life has dimmed your spark,
close your eyes and whisper to the stars.
Because somewhere, the Dream Collector is listening —
and he’s already holding the dream you thought you lost.
By Daniel Manual
Mylife4152.blog
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