So I had this funny dream last night. It was quite a vivid dream and funny enough, in that dream, I retained my pseudonym ‘’Ragnar’’. I found myself standing in a dusty marketplace, probably around 3000 BC (as the major mode of transportation were donkeys and things were written on clay tablets). It was like a bustling Sumerian city. It was a usual trade day as merchants haggled over their trades. In that dream, I was going round the market with a small gleaming nugget of gold. The I met a crowd. “People of this land! “Behold this metal, pulled from the river’s. This is gold, and it will become the money of the future!” The crowd paused, then erupted in laughter. A wise merchant with a braided beard, jeered, “Money? That shiny rock? We trade with barley and goats, fool! They feed us, they clothe us. Your ‘gold’ is useless!, can we eat metal?” I pressed on, undeterred. “This gold is rare, durable, and cannot be forged or spoiled. It will hold its value across generations, unlike your barley that rots or goats that die.” A woman with a clay tablet under her arm scoffed. “Barley has fed our people for centuries. Our grandfathers traded it, our children will trade it. It has history, trust. Your yellow pebble has none! What fool would accept it?” The crowd roared with mirth, a child pelting me with a clod of dirt. “Go trade your shiny stone with the river spirits!” the boy shouted. I tried again with a louder voice. “Gold can be shaped, divided, carried across lands. It will unite tribes, kingdoms, even empires! You’ll see—thousands of years from now, it will be prized above all!” An elder, leaning on a staff, shook his head. “Empires? Ha! Our city’s ways are proven. We record debts on tablets, sealed with the king’s mark. Your gold has no story, no seal. It’s just a toy for children to play with.” The laughter grew deafening, and I felt the weight of their skepticism. I tried to explain scarcity, portability, but the words felt hollow against their rooted traditions. A potter waved me off, saying, “Come back when your gold buys bread, dreamer!” The crowd dispersed, returning to their trades, leaving me alone with my nugget glinting in the sun. As the dream faded, I woke up, chuckling softly in my bed. The irony stung like a fresh wound. I thought of the goldbugs of today preaching gold’s 5,000-year legacy while dismissing bitcoin’s potential. In this dream, I was the outcast, the visionary mocked for a truth no one could yet see. I thought that maybe, bitcoin’s day was still coming—just as gold’s had, long ago. I rolled over, smiling and trying to get back to sleep, but my mind was too busy, racing. “History’s a funny thing,” I whispered under my breath. Suddenly, my wife woke up and asked why I was talking about history in the dead of the night. ‘’Babe, you will not understand. Please go back to sleep and ignore me’’. 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Story modified with Grok AI. 😊