The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up.

Host: The city was still asleep when the alarm clock cut through the dark — a sharp reminder that dreams always end the same way: with a choice. The room was small, lived-in — half-finished coffee on the desk, a stack of notebooks filled with half-sketched plans, ambitions still waiting to be translated into action. The sky outside was ink-blue, trembling with the promise of dawn.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, shoulders heavy but restless. Across from him, Jeeny was already awake, leaning against the window, watching the first faint light crawl over the skyline.

For a long moment, they said nothing — only the hum of the city waking up filled the silence.

Then Jeeny turned, her voice low but certain.

Jeeny: “Paul Valéry once said, ‘The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up.’”
She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that knows the line between poetry and warning. “I’ve always loved that one. It’s brutal, but true.”

Jack: grinning tiredly “You mean it ruins the romance of dreaming?”

Jeeny: “No. It dignifies it. Dreams are supposed to be blueprints, not bedrooms.”

Host: The light from the window caught her face — soft, determined — while Jack looked like a man halfway between wanting to believe and wanting to go back to sleep.

Jack: “You ever think dreams are safer than reality because they don’t have deadlines?”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s why most people live in them instead of chasing them. It’s easier to fantasize about success than to risk failing at it.”

Jack: smirking “So, you’re saying we’re all cowards with good imaginations.”

Jeeny: “Not cowards. Just comfortable.”

Host: She moved away from the window, crossing the room. The sound of her bare feet on the wood floor was quiet, steady — like conviction learning to walk.

Jeeny: “Valéry wasn’t mocking dreamers. He was challenging them. The world belongs to those who can translate vision into motion.”

Jack: “So you think reality is more important than dreaming?”

Jeeny: “No. I think the two are partners — the dream gives birth, reality raises the child.”

Host: Jack laughed — not mockingly, but like someone recognizing truth wrapped in elegance. “You know,” he said, “every motivational speaker on the planet says, ‘Follow your dreams.’ None of them mention the part where you have to wake up first.”

Jeeny: nodding “That’s because waking up is ugly. It’s early mornings, rejection emails, bills, self-doubt, exhaustion. But that’s where the dream starts to breathe. Sleep is conception — waking is birth.”

Jack: grinning “Birth’s messy.”

Jeeny: “So is becoming real.”

Host: The sunlight began to spill into the room now — not golden, not grand, just honest. The kind of light that doesn’t flatter, but reveals.

Jack stood, stretching, staring at the notes tacked on the wall — plans, sketches, half-written lyrics, deadlines that had long since expired.

Jack: “You ever wonder why it’s so easy to believe in dreams at night, and so hard in the morning?”

Jeeny: “Because at night, we imagine the reward. In the morning, we face the work.”

Jack: “So the alarm clock’s the real hero.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the sound of potential demanding accountability.”

Host: He turned to her, the weight in his eyes softening. “You make waking up sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. It means you haven’t given up.”

Jack: “Or you’re too stubborn to keep sleeping.”

Jeeny: “Same thing, sometimes.”

Host: The street below began to stir — buses groaning, a distant siren, the murmuring life of people choosing, one by one, to meet the day.

Jeeny sat on the desk now, watching him pick up one of his notebooks. He flipped through it — the pages filled with words that once felt urgent but now looked distant.

Jeeny: “You wrote all that, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah. Late nights. Big ideas. Zero execution.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe today’s the day to change that.”

Jack: quietly “You really think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “Not simple. Just necessary. Every dream has an expiration date if you don’t feed it reality.”

Host: The light touched the desk now, revealing dust, smudges, fingerprints — proof of life, of effort waiting to begin again.

Jack: “You ever think waking up means giving up on the dream?”

Jeeny: “No. It means giving it a body. A pulse. A name. Sleep is hope; work is love.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You always make pragmatism sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. There’s nothing more beautiful than someone actually doing what they once only imagined.”

Host: He picked up a pen, weighed it in his hand. “You know, sometimes I wish I could go back to believing the dream was enough.”

Jeeny: “And miss the part where it comes true?”

Jack: after a pause “Fair point.”

Host: The alarm clock buzzed again — faintly, insistently. Jack reached over and turned it off. The sound stopped. The silence that followed felt like the start of something.

Jeeny: “So?” she asked. “You going to keep dreaming, or are you ready to wake up?”

Jack: smiling as he opened the notebook “Maybe both. Dream while I’m awake.”

Jeeny: “Good. That’s where creation lives — in the middle.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — two figures in a small, sunlit room, surrounded by unfinished plans and unspent energy. The city outside would burst into full light — horns, footsteps, beginnings.

And as the scene faded, Paul Valéry’s words would echo — sharp, wise, compassionate, like a voice whispering through time to every dreamer still asleep at their desk:

“The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up.”

Because dreams are blueprints, not destinations.

Sleep shows us possibility —
waking gives it shape.

To dream is to wish.
To wake is to build.

And somewhere between those two —
between the soft world of imagination
and the hard edge of effort —
lies the only real miracle:

becoming.