As I live and am a man, this is an unexaggerated tale - my dreams

Host:
The night was a mosaic of fog and lamplight, each streetlamp a trembling halo suspended above the empty cobblestones. Somewhere beyond the mist, a train horn cried out — lonely, distant, like a memory calling through the bones of the city.

The café sat at the corner of nothing and nostalgia, its windows fogged from breath and conversation long gone. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of coffee and rain-damp books.

At a small round table, beneath a flickering light, Jack sat with his elbows on the wood, his hands clasped, his eyes far away. A half-smoked cigarette balanced on the ashtray, its smoke curling upward like a ghost learning to dance.

Across from him, Jeeny sipped her tea, her hair unkempt, her expression serene, like someone who had already made peace with the mysteries Jack was still trying to solve. A worn notebook lay open between them, and in it, the words of Coleridge gleamed faintly under the lamp’s gold haze:

“As I live and am a man, this is an unexaggerated tale — my dreams become the substances of my life.” — Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The sentence hung between them like a spell, trembling with possibility and fear.

Jeeny: softly, tracing the ink with her finger “There’s something almost sacred about that line. The idea that our dreams don’t just influence our lives — they become them.”

Jack: with a dry laugh “Or maybe it’s the opposite — our lives just collapse into our dreams. People romanticize vision, but half the time, it’s just delusion with lighting.”

Host:
The lamp flickered, and for a moment, Jack’s face was a canvas of shadow and flame. Outside, the rain began, soft but persistent, each drop tapping the windowpane like a clock keeping secrets.

Jeeny: “Delusion? That’s such a cold word. Dreams are the only things that ever make life bearable. They’re not escapes, Jack — they’re blueprints for what’s possible.”

Jack: leaning back, exhaling smoke “Blueprints don’t mean a damn thing if the materials are rotten. You can dream of cathedrals, but if you’re building with mud, all you get is collapse. That’s the curse of being human — to dream vividly and live vaguely.”

Host:
The rainlight shimmered against the window, turning the city outside into a blur of gold and silver streaks. The sound of it pressed close, rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat wrapped in water.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about success, Jack. Maybe it’s about translation — learning to let the abstract live in the real. Coleridge didn’t say his dreams guided his life. He said they became it. That’s something different.”

Jack: “Different how?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “It means he didn’t just chase them. He merged with them. He let his imagination bleed into his existence. He didn’t separate what he dreamed from what he did.”

Jack: grinning wryly “Sounds poetic. Also sounds like a good way to lose your mind.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe sanity is just a clever cage for those afraid to live imaginatively.”

Host:
The silence that followed was alive, vibrating like a string drawn too tight. Jack’s eyes softened — the kind of softness that comes when resistance begins to doubt itself.

He looked toward the window, where the rain had begun to glisten on the glass, mirroring the flicker of his thoughts.

Jack: quietly “You know, when I was a kid, I used to have this recurring dream. I’d be walking down a road, and every time I looked up, the stars were closer — so close I could almost touch them. Then one night I tried, and they… burned through me. I woke up crying.”

Jeeny: listening carefully “And did it ever stop?”

Jack: shaking his head “No. I just stopped trying to reach them.”

Jeeny: after a pause “Then you didn’t stop dreaming, Jack. You just stopped believing they could touch you back.”

Host:
Her words hit him with the quiet force of truth. The lamp buzzed, a tiny halo trembling, the room shrinking into a small universe of light and thought.

Jack: “You think that’s what Coleridge meant? That dreams aren’t visited — they’re inhabited?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That the imagination isn’t a mirror, it’s a door. Most people just stare at the reflection — he walked through it.”

Host:
The wind outside shifted, carrying with it the smell of the ocean, distant but alive, as if the sea itself was listening. The city’s noise fell away, and for an instant, it felt as though only the two of them and the lamp existed — a tiny galaxy of philosophy and pulse.

Jack: rubbing his forehead, voice low “You know, sometimes I think dreamers are the most tortured people. They build worlds that can’t exist, then spend their lives mourning what never was.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they’re the most alive. Because at least they’ve seen something beyond the curtain. Most people never even look.”

Host:
The clock on the wall ticked with a slow insistence, marking the passing of time that neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge.

Jack: “So what — you think we should all just turn our lives into dreams?”

Jeeny: softly, but with fire “No, Jack. I think we should stop pretending they’re separate.”

Host:
He looked at her then — really looked — and in her eyes, he saw the same reckless faith that had both terrified and inspired him for as long as he’d known her. The kind of faith that could ruin or redeem a life.

Jack: whispering “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it’s real. The moment your dreams stop being impossible, they stop being alive.”

Host:
The rain slowed, becoming a mist that caressed the windows instead of striking them. The café’s hum faded; even the city beyond seemed to hold its breath.

Jack reached for the notebook, his fingers brushing the page. He read the quote again, mouthing the words — “my dreams become the substances of my life” — as though testing their weight on his tongue.

Jack: quietly “You know… maybe that’s what I’ve been afraid of. Not that my dreams won’t come true — but that they’ll demand too much if they do.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Every dream does. It’s not supposed to be a gift, Jack. It’s a transformation. And transformation always hurts.”

Host:
Outside, the fog thinned, revealing the faint outline of the moon above the wet rooftops. The light broke through the glass, spilling across the table like a benediction.

Jack: smiling, almost to himself “Coleridge was right, wasn’t he? It’s not an exaggerated tale — it’s a confession. The man didn’t just dream poems — he lived inside them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s the truest life any of us can have — to let what we imagine take root in what we are.”

Host:
The lamp burned lower, the flame softening, its edge trembling like a heartbeat fading into sleep. The two sat quietly, the notebook still between them — a bridge between dream and existence, art and flesh.

Jack took a slow breath, looked up, and smiled — a small, unguarded smile, like a man who had finally found permission to believe again.

Jeeny returned it — not with words, but with eyes that said I told you so.

The clock struck midnight, its chime soft, melancholic, yet somehow hopeful. The café light dimmed, and the rain stopped completely, leaving only the echo of quiet — a kind of sacred stillness.

Host:
And as the camera of eternity pulled back through the fog, through the windows, out into the moonlit street, one could still see their shapes — two souls lit by a small flame, caught between reality and reverie.

And perhaps that was the truth Coleridge meant to leave us with —
That a dream, once believed in fiercely enough,
does not need to end when we wake.

It simply changes rooms —
from the mind’s theater to the soul’s stage —
and there, it continues to breathe,
as the substance of life itself.