I am a person who has many dreams. But as soon as I accomplish

Host:
The night hung heavy with the scent of salt and rhythm. The harbor lights of Barcelona flickered across the dark water, their reflections trembling like scattered thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, a street musician played a slow, aching flamenco melody, the guitar notes rising and falling like waves against memory.

Inside a dim studio loft, high above the sleeping city, two figures sat surrounded by instruments, vinyl records, and the lingering hum of creativity. The air was warm, faintly electric — the kind of space where midnight never truly ends.

Jack sat by the window, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the smoke curling upward like thought made visible. His grey eyes were distant, fixed on the skyline.

Across the room, Jeeny was barefoot, her hair falling loosely around her face as she tuned a small guitar, each note vibrating softly through the silence. Her eyes flicked to a piece of paper on the table between them — the quote they had been talking around for hours, without quite touching:

“I am a person who has many dreams. But as soon as I accomplish one, I move on to the next. That's my fatal, absurd nature. Human beings are slaves to our dreams, and I am, too. Now I think I just want to share my musical proposal in its entire form.”
— Shakira

The words shimmered in the lamplight — a confession of brilliance and exhaustion, ambition and surrender.

Jeeny: softly, strumming once “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The honesty of it. She doesn’t romanticize the dream. She calls it slavery — but still, she obeys it.”

Jack: exhaling smoke “Yeah. A noble addiction. We chase dreams like they’re oxygen — and then blame them for suffocating us.”

Host:
The guitar note she played lingered in the air, long enough to brush against the quiet pulse of the rain starting outside. It was a sound caught between melancholy and hope — like the voice of someone who’s finally realized that passion can be both cure and curse.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes us human? The wanting? Without it, what’s left? Just breathing and waiting for time to run out?”

Jack: quietly, almost bitterly “Maybe peace. Maybe a life that doesn’t need constant proof of meaning.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Peace sounds nice until it starts to feel like silence.”

Host:
She stood, walked to the window beside him. The city below shimmered — neon signs reflected in puddles, distant laughter weaving through the rain. Music drifted up from the street — someone playing a saxophone, the sound bruised but alive.

Jeeny: “Look at that. Every window down there — someone dreaming of something. A song, a lover, a tomorrow. You think any of them ever really stop?”

Jack: watching her, then the city “No. I think they just change the name of the dream and call it survival.”

Jeeny: “That’s not cynical — that’s poetic.”

Jack: “No. That’s experience.”

Host:
A long silence. Only the rain speaking now, tracing its rhythm on the glass. Jeeny plucked another chord — soft, almost secret — and the sound filled the small space between them like a confession neither had intended to make.

Jeeny: “She says ‘fatal, absurd nature.’ I love that. It’s the paradox of it — that we know it destroys us, and we still do it. We still want. Still reach.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe it’s not absurd. Maybe it’s instinct. Sharks keep swimming or they drown. Humans keep dreaming — same reason.”

Jeeny: turning toward him “But dreams aren’t survival, Jack. They’re beyond survival. They’re the one thing that doesn’t make sense — and that’s why they matter.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You sound like you’ve never been burned by one.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Oh, I’ve been burned plenty. But even ashes can hum if you listen close enough.”

Host:
The lamp flickered, throwing shadows across the walls — sheet music, photographs, unfinished lyrics scattered like fragments of a life half-lived, half-performed. The scene felt almost sacred — the place where art and exhaustion sleep in the same bed.

Jack: “You ever wonder why artists like her never stop? Seven albums, world tours, awards — still she says she’s enslaved by her dreams. Isn’t there a point where it’s enough?”

Jeeny: softly, tuning a string “There’s no enough for people like her. Or like you.”

Jack: quietly “Me?”

Jeeny: meeting his eyes “Yeah. The ones who can’t rest until they’ve turned their restlessness into something beautiful.”

Jack: after a pause “You make obsession sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe obsession is just another word for devotion — and devotion, for creation.”

Host:
The rain softened to a whisper, the sound like breath against glass. Jack’s cigarette had gone out; he hadn’t noticed. He stared down at the quote again, tracing the words with a fingertip as if trying to feel their weight.

Jack: quietly, to himself “She just wants to share her music in its entire form… That’s the part that breaks me. After everything — she still just wants to be understood.”

Jeeny: nodding “We all do. That’s the tragedy of art. You give everything to the world, and still it’s never quite what you meant. The dream always feels unfinished.”

Jack: smiling softly “And maybe that’s the point. If we ever finished it, we’d have nothing left to live for.”

Host:
The guitar fell silent, the last note trembling into nothing. Outside, the harbor lights shimmered brighter as the fog began to lift. The city’s heartbeat returned — steady, chaotic, alive.

Jeeny: softly, closing her eyes “So we keep dreaming. Even if it enslaves us.”

Jack: after a long pause “Maybe the only real freedom is in the chase.”

Host:
He stood, walked to the record player, and lowered the needle onto a vinyl. The first notes of an old Latin ballad filled the room — haunting, tender, infinite. Jeeny smiled, eyes half-closed, swaying gently to the rhythm.

Jack: quietly “You think dreams ever get tired of us?”

Jeeny: whispering “Never. They just change shape when we do.”

Host:
And there it was — the truth Shakira had lived and they now understood:
That dreams are not goals, but companions — merciless, magnetic, eternal.

That the moment one is fulfilled, another rises — not to torment us, but to remind us that we are still alive, still reaching, still becoming.

And as the music swelled, the camera of the night pulled away, through the window, over the rain-washed rooftops of Barcelona, where a thousand unseen hearts still pulsed with secret ambition.

Host:
And perhaps that is the most human sound of all —
not applause, not completion,
but the quiet, relentless rhythm
of a dream beginning again.

Because we are, all of us,
slaves to our dreams —
and in that bondage,
we find our most beautiful freedom.