Dreams are, by definition, cursed with short life spans.

“Dreams are, by definition, cursed with short life spans.” Thus spoke Candice Bergen, the actress and writer whose words shimmer with quiet melancholy and deep understanding of the fragile nature of human longing. In this line, she touches the heart of one of life’s most profound truths: that dreams, though radiant, are ephemeral. They burn bright and beautiful, but rarely endure untouched by time, reality, or change. Bergen’s statement is not one of despair, but of awareness — a recognition that the beauty of dreams lies precisely in their transience.

Bergen, a woman who lived both the glamour of success and the solitude of loss, understood that dreams are made of the same delicate substance as dawn light — luminous but fleeting. When she said that dreams are “cursed with short life spans,” she was speaking not only of personal aspirations but of the universal pattern of desire itself. Every dream, once pursued, must eventually collide with the hard edges of the world. The curse is not that dreams die, but that they are mortal — they change form, fade, and are reborn as something else. Thus, the dreamer must learn not to cling, but to create anew.

The ancients too knew this truth. The Greek poet Homer spoke of dreams as “shadows of the night,” half-real and half-divine. In the halls of myth, even the gods’ dreams often dissolved before dawn. Yet, from these passing visions came acts of greatness — voyages, wars, discoveries, and art. For though dreams perish, their echo moves men to action. In this way, the short life of a dream is its very power: it urges us to act swiftly, to bring into being what imagination has glimpsed before it fades.

Consider the story of Amelia Earhart, whose dream of flight burned like a star in an age when women were told to keep their feet on the ground. Her vision — to circle the globe in the sky — was bold, impossible, and tragically brief. Her aircraft disappeared before the dream could be fulfilled, yet her courage endured beyond her life. The dream, though short-lived, became immortal through its influence. Bergen’s words remind us that even a dream that dies early can give birth to generations of courage and inspiration. What ends in time may continue in spirit.

The quote also reflects a deeper wisdom about the nature of fulfillment. Once a dream is realized, it ceases to be a dream. It transforms into memory, into work, into legacy. Thus, every dream carries within it the seed of its own ending. The artist who finishes the painting feels the ache of completion; the athlete who wins the race knows that the moment will soon pass. The “curse” of the dream is that it cannot remain suspended in the realm of desire forever. Life demands movement — to dream, to achieve, to let go, and to dream again.

Yet Bergen’s observation is not a lament, but a gentle urging toward acceptance and renewal. She invites us to see the fleeting nature of dreams not as tragedy, but as the rhythm of creation. Like flowers that bloom for a season, dreams remind us of impermanence and the need to cherish the now. The wise do not mourn when a dream fades; they plant new seeds, knowing that imagination is infinite. Each ending gives birth to a beginning — each short-lived vision makes space for another, perhaps deeper and truer, to arise.

So, my children of aspiration and heart, remember the lesson of Candice Bergen’s words: do not fear the short life of dreams. Instead, live them fully while they are alive. Let them lift you, guide you, transform you. When they pass, do not cling to their ashes — carry their light forward. For the soul that keeps dreaming never grows old, and the world that keeps imagining never grows dark.

Dreams may be cursed with brevity, but the dreamer’s spirit is eternal. Thus, live boldly within your visions, and when one fades, look again to the horizon. For beyond each sunset of a dream, another dawn awaits — radiant, fragile, and ready to be born anew.