When you believe in your dream and your vision, then it begins to

Host: The factory was quiet now. The day’s machines had stopped humming, leaving only the soft echo of dripping pipes and the smell of oil hanging heavy in the air. Through the high, cracked windows, a sunset poured in — molten orange light spilling across the floor like slow fire.

In the middle of the wide, empty space, Jack stood looking up at an old, half-finished mural painted on the far wall — faded words that read, “DREAM BIG, WORK HARD.”

Jeeny entered through the open door, her footsteps light against the concrete. She carried a small sketchbook, worn at the edges, the kind that had seen more hope than sleep.

Jeeny: “You’ve been standing here for hours.”

Jack: “Just thinking,” he said, without turning. “This place used to build engines. Thousands of people worked here. Now it’s just dust and slogans.”

Host: She walked closer, her eyes catching the faint shimmer of sunlight on the mural’s cracked paint.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How words survive longer than the hands that wrote them.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said with a wry smile. “Words and ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe just dreams that haven’t given up yet.”

Host: Jack turned finally, his grey eyes tired but alert, the kind of tired that comes from too many years of realism pressed against the fragile glass of hope.

Jack: “You sound like Myles Munroe,” he said. “He once said, ‘When you believe in your dream and your vision, then it begins to attract its own resources. No one was born to be a failure.’”

Jeeny: “He was right,” she said softly. “Dreams aren’t accidents — they’re assignments.”

Jack: “Assignments?” He laughed quietly. “That’s a nice way to romanticize chance.”

Jeeny: “Not chance. Calling. You think it’s chance that certain people burn for something their whole lives? That someone wakes up every morning haunted by a vision that won’t let them rest?”

Host: The last light of day bled into gold, painting the dust in the air until it shimmered like the memory of sunlight.

Jack: “You really think believing in a dream makes it real?”

Jeeny: “I think belief is the first resource it attracts. Everything else follows.”

Jack: “So what — the universe starts working for you once you say the right affirmations? That sounds like superstition with better marketing.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said calmly. “It’s alignment. When you believe in something with your whole self, your thoughts, your energy, your choices — everything shifts. You start seeing doors where before you only saw walls.”

Jack: “And what if the doors are locked?”

Jeeny: “Then you build your own.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, shaking his head, a shadow of admiration under his sarcasm. The air between them carried the scent of rust and the faint hum of distant traffic, the city beyond still pulsing with life.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. But failure isn’t destiny — it’s delay. Myles Munroe said no one was born to be a failure. And I believe that. Failure is something we learn. Dreaming is something we forget.”

Jack: “You know,” he said, “I used to believe that. When I was younger. That if you just believed enough, worked enough, you could build something that mattered. But then the world showed up — bills, bosses, betrayals. Belief doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “No, but it pays purpose. And purpose is the only currency that outlasts the world.”

Host: A long silence followed — not empty, but alive with tension. The light was fading now, slipping from the mural to their faces, then slowly to the floor.

Jack: “Purpose,” he said quietly. “That’s a word people use when they’ve run out of proof.”

Jeeny: “Or when they’ve learned that proof comes later,” she countered. “Think of every inventor, every artist, every saint. They were all called fools before they became examples. They believed in what they couldn’t see until the world couldn’t ignore it.”

Jack: “But what about those who believed and never succeeded?”

Jeeny: “They still won. Because they didn’t let the world dictate their worth. You can fail at the dream, but you can’t fail at the faith.”

Host: The wind pushed through a crack in the window, stirring the loose papers near their feet. A half-torn blueprint fluttered up, skidding across the floor — a design for something that had never been built.

Jack bent down and picked it up. The lines were faded, but clear enough to see the outline of a massive gear mechanism, drawn with precision and care.

Jack: “Someone once believed in this,” he murmured.

Jeeny: “Exactly. And even if it was never built, that belief shaped something. Maybe not a machine, but a man.”

Host: The last rays of sunlight caught the edge of the blueprint, glowing like revelation.

Jack looked at it for a long time, then folded it gently, slipping it into his coat pocket.

Jack: “You really think dreams attract their own resources?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Belief is magnetic. Not the kind that pulls metal — the kind that pulls meaning. When you move toward what you love, the world starts moving too. Not always fast, not always visibly — but it moves.”

Jack: “So the universe rewards sincerity?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling slightly. “It rewards endurance.”

Host: Her eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, like coals that refused to die. Jack turned back to the mural — the words “DREAM BIG, WORK HARD” now half-vanished in shadow, yet somehow clearer than ever.

Jack: “You know,” he said softly, “I think I stopped dreaming because I mistook fatigue for failure.”

Jeeny: “That’s what most people do. But dreams don’t die, Jack. They wait. They wait for you to remember.”

Host: The lights of the city began to flicker on outside — small, stubborn stars refusing the darkness.

Jack exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cool air.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time I start talking to mine again.”

Jeeny: “Then do it,” she said, stepping closer, her voice almost a whisper. “Believe in it like it believes in you.”

Host: For a long moment, they stood in silence, surrounded by the ghosts of what was built and what wasn’t. Then Jack looked up once more at the mural.

Jack: “You’re right,” he said, a faint smile breaking through. “No one was born to be a failure. But some of us forget we were born to begin.”

Jeeny: “Then begin again.”

Host: The sunset faded, leaving the mural bathed in the glow of the city’s distant lights. The factory was silent, but something had shifted — not in the walls, but in the air, in the man, in the way hope had quietly come home.

And as they stepped out into the cooling night, the wind carried a whisper through the rusted beams — a voice both ancient and new:

Believe, and the world will remember how to build with you.

FADE OUT.