Be very clear as to what your dream is. Nowadays it is fairly

Host: The night pressed close around the city, thick with fog and the hum of neon lights. A single streetlamp flickered above the narrow alley, cutting pale gold ribbons through the mist. Down the block, the small theatre stood quiet—its marquee half-lit, the word “Dreams” missing its ‘D’, leaving only “reams” glowing faintly in the dark.

Host: Inside, the air was heavy with old dust, the faint scent of makeup, velvet curtains, and ambition long cooled. On the empty stage, a single spotlight fell on two figures. Jack, still in his coat, stood beside a broken mirror, while Jeeny, perched on the edge of the stage, twirled a faded mask in her hands.

Host: Between them lay a torn page from an actor’s magazine, the words smudged but legible:
“Be very clear as to what your dream is. Nowadays it is fairly certain that 90 percent of all actors really just want to be rich and famous as the solution to all that ails.” — Dirk Benedict.

Jack: (dryly) Ninety percent, huh? Sounds generous. I’d say it’s closer to a hundred.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) You’ve become cynical, Jack. Maybe too many curtain calls turned into echoes for you.

Jack: (shrugging) Or maybe I just learned the truth. People don’t chase art anymore—they chase applause. They don’t want to be artists. They want to be seen.

Host: The light from the street seeped through the cracks in the wall, splashing their faces in fractured gold and shadow. Jeeny looked up, her eyes gleaming with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: Maybe that’s because they’ve forgotten what dreaming feels like. Fame is easier to measure than fulfillment. It’s a substitute for meaning.

Jack: (bitterly) Meaning doesn’t pay the rent. You ever watch an actor pour his soul into a play only to be forgotten by morning? The world doesn’t reward purity—it rewards visibility.

Jeeny: (softly) Then maybe the reward isn’t the point.

Jack: (snapping) That’s the kind of thing people say when they’re losing.

Host: A tense silence fell. The spotlight flickered overhead, its buzz filling the emptiness. Jack’s reflection in the broken mirror fractured into a dozen versions of himself—each staring back with equal weariness.

Jeeny: (calmly) Tell me something, Jack. When you were a kid, before the auditions, before the critics—why did you want to act?

Jack: (hesitates) I… (he looks away) I don’t know. Maybe I liked pretending to be someone else.

Jeeny: (leaning forward) Or maybe you liked revealing parts of yourself that no one saw.

Jack: (quietly) That was before I learned the audience doesn’t care who you are. They care about how well you sell it.

Jeeny: (firmly) No. They care when you mean it. They just don’t always know they do. That’s why Benedict’s right—you have to be clear about your dream. Otherwise, the industry tells you what to want.

Host: The air seemed to hum with her words. The stage lights flickered again, illuminating motes of dust that swirled like snowflakes in slow motion.

Jack: You make it sound noble, Jeeny. But we both know this business is a machine—it eats sincerity and sells illusion.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) Only if you feed it your soul.

Jack: (half-laughing) That’s all an actor has to feed it.

Jeeny: No, Jack. You have your purpose too. Fame is a byproduct; the dream is the art. You can’t confuse the two.

Host: Jack ran a hand through his hair, pacing slowly across the stage, his footsteps echoing like memory.

Jack: You talk about art like it’s sacred. But art doesn’t keep you alive in this city. Rent, rejection, debt—that’s the real script.

Jeeny: (quietly) And yet, here you are. Still on the stage. Still chasing something.

Jack: (after a pause) Maybe habit.

Jeeny: Maybe hunger.

Host: The spotlight dimmed until only a soft glow rimmed their silhouettes. Outside, a taxi horn blared, distant and impatient.

Jack: You know what fame really is? It’s a mirror that only shows the surface. The higher you climb, the less you see of yourself.

Jeeny: (softly) Then step away from it.

Jack: (angrily) Easy for you to say. You never had the chance to stand in it!

Jeeny: (rising, her voice sharp now) I didn’t need to. I’ve seen what it does. It takes people who once cared about truth and turns them into reflections of desire.

Host: The mask in her hand slipped and hit the floor, cracking down the middle. The sound was sharp, final. The silence that followed hung heavy between them.

Jack: (after a long pause) Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did want the wrong thing.

Jeeny: (gently) No, Jack. You just forgot to ask why.

Jack: (sitting down, defeated) What’s the point of having a dream if the world crushes it the moment you step out the door?

Jeeny: (kneeling beside him) The point is to keep it alive anyway. The dream doesn’t have to survive the world—it just has to survive you.

Host: A faint draft moved through the theatre, fluttering the tattered curtain. Somewhere deep inside the rafters, a loose light fixture swayed, its chain clinking like the pulse of time.

Jeeny: Dirk Benedict wasn’t warning against fame, Jack. He was warning against forgetting the source of the dream—the child who picked up a script and believed it was magic.

Jack: (voice cracking) I can’t find that kid anymore.

Jeeny: (whispering) Then maybe tonight’s the night you call him back.

Host: Jack looked toward the empty seats, rows upon rows of shadows waiting for a performance that would never come. His eyes softened, as if remembering an old melody.

Jack: When I first stood on stage, I thought acting would make me more real. Funny, huh? Pretending for a living just to feel authentic.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) That’s not funny. That’s honest. Every artist is trying to become what they already are.

Host: The spotlight dimmed to a whisper, leaving only their voices echoing in the stillness.

Jack: So clarity, huh? That’s what it comes down to. Knowing the dream before the dream knows you.

Jeeny: (nodding) Yes. Clarity keeps the soul safe. Fame feeds the ego; vision feeds the heart.

Jack: (softly) Maybe that’s the difference between being known and being remembered.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. Fame fades when the lights go out. But truth—the kind that lives in your craft—keeps burning, even in the dark.

Host: The theatre seemed to exhale, its old walls sighing in the hush. The fog outside pressed against the windows, soft and luminous, like breath on glass.

Jack: (looking out toward the seats) Do you ever think maybe the stage doesn’t need the audience as much as we think it does? Maybe it’s just waiting for us to speak honestly.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe. Maybe the stage is the only place left where honesty can still sound beautiful.

Host: The last light died, leaving only the faint glow of the street beyond. Jack and Jeeny stood in the half-dark, their reflections merging in the cracked mirror—a perfect image of two people wrestling with the same truth: that dreams, when they’re pure, don’t need to be loud to be real.

Host: Outside, the city hummed on—unaware, uncaring—but inside that small forgotten theatre, the air pulsed with something alive again. Not applause. Not fame.

Host: Just the quiet, sacred heartbeat of a dream remembered.