In dream consciousness... we make things happen by wishing them

Host: The studio was cloaked in quiet, the kind that follows long hours and deep thought. The only light came from a single lamp by the window, its golden glow spilling across a table cluttered with notebooks, sketches, and the faint smell of turpentine. Outside, the city slept — streetlights glowing like distant stars, rain beginning to tap softly against the glass.

Jack sat at the center of the room, a paintbrush dangling loosely from his hand, staring at a canvas half-finished — a blur of color that almost seemed to breathe. Across from him, Jeeny stood barefoot, a cup of tea in hand, wrapped in the calm of midnight reflection.

Host: Between them hung that strange kind of silence that only artists know — not emptiness, but potential. A hush before creation decides what shape to take.

Jeeny: “Pir Vilayat Khan once said, ‘In dream consciousness... we make things happen by wishing them, because we are not only the observer of what we experience but also the creator.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That sounds like philosophy disguised as fantasy.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe reality disguised as philosophy.”

Jack: “You mean, what we imagine isn’t escape — it’s blueprint.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Dreams aren’t separate from creation. They’re its rehearsal.”

Host: She set her cup down beside him, leaning against the edge of the table. The lamp light caught her face in fragments — soft shadows, quiet focus, the expression of someone who believed imagination wasn’t luxury, but survival.

Jack: “So you think this”—he gestured toward the canvas—“starts there? In dream consciousness?”

Jeeny: “Everything does. Every invention, every love, every act of courage. The world is first imagined before it’s lived.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But life’s not a dream, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No — but it listens like one.”

Host: The rain grew steadier, rhythmically tapping against the glass — like applause for their quiet revelation.

Jack: “You think that’s what Khan meant? That our dreams aren’t illusions, but permissions?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The soul’s permission to create. When we’re awake, we’re limited by doubt, by logic. But in dreams — we’re pure will. We think, and it becomes.”

Jack: “So what — we’re gods when we’re asleep?”

Jeeny: “Not gods. Just unburdened humans.”

Host: She walked toward the window, watching the city lights blur through the rain. Her voice softened, distant but alive.

Jeeny: “When I was a child, I used to dream of flying. Not like a bird — more like being weightless, free. Years later, I learned to paint. And when I’m here, lost in color and silence... it feels the same. Maybe that’s what dreaming really is — remembering the part of us that’s not afraid to move without permission.”

Jack: (quietly) “Freedom without friction.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: He dipped his brush into paint — blue this time, soft and translucent — dragging it across the canvas in a slow, uncertain line.

Jack: “You know, I envy people who can still dream like that. The older I get, the more I feel like my imagination’s been taxed.”

Jeeny: “That’s because society teaches us to wake up too soon. To mistake realism for wisdom.”

Jack: “And you don’t?”

Jeeny: “No. I think realism is just fear with a respectable name.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and for a brief second, the room seemed to shimmer — like something between worlds. Jack set the brush down, his expression caught between skepticism and wonder.

Jack: “So, in dream consciousness, we’re the observer and the creator. But in waking life, we’re just the witness?”

Jeeny: “Only if we choose to be. You can still create while awake — you just have to remember you’re dreaming.”

Jack: “That’s a contradiction.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a challenge.”

Host: She walked over to the wall, running her fingers along the spine of a book that sat open — Rumi’s poems, underlined, dog-eared, worn.

Jeeny: “Khan was a Sufi. He believed consciousness was fluid — that the dreamer, the artist, the believer, the scientist — they’re all one person, just at different levels of remembering.”

Jack: “So what does that make the cynic?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “A dreamer in exile.”

Host: A pause. A long one. The kind where truth lands quietly and refuses to leave.

Jack: “You know, sometimes when I’m painting, I feel like I’m just watching it happen. Like my hands already know where the brush wants to go.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. That’s what he meant. You’re both the watcher and the maker. You’re dreaming with your eyes open.”

Jack: “And that’s why it feels sacred.”

Jeeny: “Because it is.”

Host: Outside, thunder rolled softly — not threatening, but distant, like an old drum reminding the earth to stay awake.

Jack: “It’s strange. We treat dreams like fiction, but they’ve always been instruction. Half of history was imagined before it was lived — flight, space, love without boundaries.”

Jeeny: “Dreams are humanity’s first drafts.”

Jack: “And waking life’s just the editing process.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But sometimes, the edit kills the beauty.”

Host: She stepped closer, looking at the painting — the swirl of colors beginning to form something recognizable now: a shape between horizon and possibility.

Jeeny: “You see that? You wished it, and it became. You didn’t calculate it, or plan it — you dreamed it into being.”

Jack: “But isn’t that dangerous? To believe too much in what we imagine?”

Jeeny: “Only if you forget that imagination is responsibility. Once you realize you can create, you can’t pretend you’re just observing anymore.”

Jack: “So we’re accountable for our own dreams.”

Jeeny: “And for what we fail to dream.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a gentle patter, like applause growing faint. The city outside shimmered beneath a new clarity, reflections rippling across the glass.

Jack: “You think the universe listens to what we wish?”

Jeeny: “Always. The only question is whether we’re speaking through fear or through wonder.”

Jack: “And if it’s fear?”

Jeeny: “Then the dream becomes a nightmare.”

Host: He looked at the canvas again — something radiant taking shape in the blue. Not quite finished, not quite definable.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what art is — proof that wishing still works.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every brushstroke is a whispered command to reality.”

Jack: “So, we dream the world. And if we dream it well, it heals.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because creation isn’t escape — it’s evolution.”

Host: The clock ticked softly, marking a moment that felt eternal. The room glowed, the painting alive, the rain fading into stillness.

Jack: “So maybe Khan was right. In dreams, we create. But maybe creation itself is the dream — and we’re just remembering how to keep it alive when we wake.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the secret. Stay awake, but never stop dreaming.”

Host: The lamplight trembled, catching the wet shimmer of the paint. For a heartbeat, it looked like the canvas was breathing — as if something unseen had taken its first breath.

Host: And in that silence — filled with the hum of rain, the warmth of imagination, and the pulse of awakening — Pir Vilayat Khan’s words resonated through the air like a mantra carved in light:

Host: that in the realm of dreams, we are not prisoners of fate but partners in creation;
that to wish is to build, to imagine is to act;
and that beyond the boundaries of waking and sleeping,
we are both witness and architect of our own becoming.

Host: For the truest art, the truest life,
begins when the dreamer finally understands —
the dream was never separate from the world at all.