The Dream Painter

Art created by Meg Brosneck

I wasn't one to dream. 

I hadn't been for years. After all, it takes a certain kind of sleep for vivid dreams to form, to dance through your mind to entertain your subconscious and unwind your deepest thoughts. Reaching this level of unconsciousness takes time. Even if you reach this stage, you must stay in it long enough to actually allow the dreams to form. You must allow your mind to rest. This, for many people, is just too hard of a task to accomplish. 

And "many people'' included me. I rarely slept the number of hours I should, and, when I did, it was in quick increments of an hour or two that always ended when I heard even the slightest of sounds. Why I’ve been such a bad sleeper, I’ve no idea. I’d planned to visit a doctor for years, but had never gotten around to it... instead, I simply loaded myself up on caffeine and strove to get through every day, every moment seen through the blurry haze of drooping eyelids. 

But that's just the story of my waking hours. Now, I would like to tell you about my sleeping ones. Those hours were usually uneventful. That’s why it came as quite a surprise to me when, one night, they weren't.

I'd only been lying down for about half an hour when I felt my throat itch and my skin burn. Discomfort ruled my aching body. I had known I shouldn't use my scratchy quilt, but it had been the only one clean and I hadn't felt like washing a comforter. Of course, 

that laziness would come to bite me in the butt. I needed to get away from that itchy, worn fabric and get a glass of water, so I opened my eyes to do so. 

But all I saw was white. 

I blinked once. Twice. Three times. The white didn't disappear. Surrounding me on all sides was blinding, piercing nothingness, not a single splash of color to be found. I looked down, noticing I was not in my own bed at all, but instead in a crisp white one with clean white sheets. The blanket was still mine, yet utterly devoid of color. I threw it off me in one swift movement. 

I carefully placed my bare feet on the tile in front of me. The room I was in was not closed off, but had a single corridor leading somewhere I couldn't see. There was no door, but since there was only blinding white in blinding light, I was unable to perceive where it turned or where it led—a lack of color and shadows really messed with your depth perception—so I frowned and decided to get a better look. But as soon as I pushed off the mattress behind me, the bed disappeared into thin air. 

Strange. Strange indeed. 

I made my way down the hall, my left hand clasped onto my upper right arm as I rubbed my thumb over bumpy skin. It was a strange habit of mine, comforting in a way I couldn't explain, and so it calmed the racing thoughts that screamed at me to figure out where I was. The last thing I remembered was closing my eyes…

Was I dead? 

If this was hell, it was the strangest version I'd heard of yet. If it was heaven, it was even stranger than that. 

I walked down the corridor for a short while, and I hesitated when I realized it only led to another, much larger room. The walls must have stood at least a hundred feet high, the ceiling and floor just as long as that. No source of light was visible, yet it was blindingly bright. Like the last, this room was nearly devoid of items... but unlike the last, I was not the only being in it. 

A wooden ladder stood next to the far wall, wobbling back and forth and creaking like mad. Nothing secured it, yet it remained upright even when the laws of physics cried out for it to fall. On the top rung, a bearded old man balanced with one foot. A pale blue cloak graced his shoulders, splattered with color, as he reached up high and dragged a paintbrush across the wall. It left a beautiful rainbow of color in its wake. Each stroke covered the white, a magnificent scene slowly coming into existence to thank its creator for giving it such beauty. I couldn't help but smile—I couldn't decipher what exactly he was painting yet, but it seemed to have something to do with trees. Dark and pale purples laid against a soft sky, and the man considered it for a moment before he dipped his paintbrush into his palette. It came out covered in pale orange.

I breathed out a sigh of awe. Instantly, the painting stopped, and the man turned around to face me. His ladder wobbled under his feet, his movement much too sudden, but he paid it no mind. Instead, a kindly smile graced his full lips as he beamed at me. 

"You're here!" 

I shifted, a tight frown on my face, and asked, "You've been expecting me?" 

The man laughed. It was a deep, hearty laugh, one that came not from the throat nor stomach, but straight from the heart. It was the laugh of a grandfather playing with his granddaughter for the first time—the laugh of an old man finding the joyous compassion of childhood. I tilted my head slightly, confused, but not distrusting. 

"I haven't been expecting you at all, actually," said the man, eyes never leaving mine. His eyes were as white as the clouds above, brighter than the wispy, gray strands of hair overlooking his face. "Not many people come here at all. I'm usually alone, but I'm happy to see you've come to visit." 

"Am I dead?" I couldn't help myself but to ask, for I had to know the truth. It was with great relief that I realized the man was laughing once more. 

"Heavens no!" He proclaimed, "You're simply in the beginning stages of your dreams, a stage I haven't quite finished yet. Most people don't arrive here until it's already finished... but you're here, and that means I get to talk to someone for once. Come with me! There's so much to show you."

The old man descended from the ladder and began to walk off, paintbrush still in hand and dripping paint onto his clothes and the floor below him. But I wasn't quite ready to go. I hurried to catch up with him and grabbed his arm to slow him down. 

"But who are you?" I asked. The man paused. 

"I am the Dream Painter," he said, bowing politely. "I am the one responsible for all of your dreams." 

"The Dream Painter?" I repeated the name, testing each syllable on the tip of my tongue. The name tasted whimsical, yet trustworthy.

The Dream Painter nodded. He gestured to the walls surrounding him. "This is your dreamscape," he began, flicking his paintbrush between two fingers. "I design everyone's every night, and right now I am working on yours. It's my job—has been since the beginning of time. I think I do a pretty good job of it, though I suppose that's up to those I gift the dreams to to decide." 

He began to walk off again, and so I walked beside him, matching his pace. He hummed as he went; it was a soft, soothing tune which easily put me at ease. 

"You paint every person's dreams?" I wanted to accuse him of lying, yet something about him kept me from doing so. Instead, I opted for a much gentler, "How can that be? There are almost eight billion humans on Earth—"

"Over eight billion now, actually." The Dream Painter's eyes glistened with unspoken stories. "And I never said every person's. I said everyone's. Did you know nearly every animal on Earth dreams in some capacity?" 

I frowned, thinking back to my pets at home, who kicked and whined and growled in their sleep. To my old childhood dog Lucy, who used to wake up barking at things that weren’t there, and to my deceased father who would wake her gently to comfort her. "You give animals dreams as well?" 

"Everyone means everyone, my dear." The Dream Painter walked ahead of me, and I realized with a start that we were very far from where we began. The enclosed room we were in seemed to grow with each step we took, never ending if we didn't want it to. His ladder was a mere speck in the distance now. The Dream Painter, oblivious to my surprise, continued. 

"Numbers mean very little to me. I'm not mortal, not as you understand mortality, anyways, and I'm not bound by the limits of time. I design everyone's dreams every single night... and I enjoy doing so. Please, just understand that. I believe the question of whether I enjoy what I do matters much more than how I do it." 

That did very little to answer my question, but I supposed it didn't matter in the end; it didn't seem like he was going to tell me anyhow. Perhaps not out of maliciousness, but certainly out of wisdom; I wouldn't understand even if he tried. 

I hurried to catch up with him again. "Why do you paint dreams?" I asked him, genuine interest woven through my words. He smiled. 

"Well, everyone needs an escape from the waking world, don't they?" He gestured to the walls surrounding him, which were slowly beginning to gain color. Houses, cities, farmlands, galaxies... it became clear to me that we were walking through an exhibit of his work. I gazed around, mouth agape, while he continued to speak. "The waking world can be stressful. Please, don't get me wrong—reality is very important. But sometimes it can be overwhelming... that's what I'm to provide: an escape to what could be, or maybe a return to what once was." 

A beautiful sky on my right, a brilliant ocean on my left. The Dream Painter's eyes seemed to shine just as bright as the scenes before us as he excitedly showed me them all. Each scene was hazy, like a memory, yet at the same time was so detailed I couldn't imagine it as being anything but clear. 

We passed a painting of a house, paint peeling away from its cracked wood sides with fallen shingles littering the ground besides it. An eerie glow came from within its stained windows, the only light from the dark scene depicted. I shivered. 

"What about the nightmares?"

The Dream Painter finally stopped for a moment. A small frown finally cursed those small lips, but I was grateful to see him give it such intense thought. 

“Well,” he finally said, “think about it this way. Nightmares come from the fears that consume so much of our waking hours. If one is so terrified of something, don’t they deserve some time to face it? Dreams offer a place for them to face even the darkest of fears, but those fears can't hurt them here. Nightmares are for when escapism isn’t strong enough a remedy." 

My teeth pressing against my bottom lip, cutting into the skin, I pondered his words for a moment. I suppose I could see where he was coming from, yet memories of friends and family swirled through my mind. My cousin, sweating under blankets as she saw the face of her lost child in her sleep. My uncle, waking up screaming at the mere sound of fireworks outside. My friend, scared to nap and find out his abuser had found him once more. 

"Don't you think you go a little too far sometimes?" I asked, "Don't you think some things deserve to be left in the past?" 

The Dream Painter hummed. "I do," he said, absentmindedly twisting his paintbrush against the paints, mixing them into new shades of purple and brown. "But I cannot simply paint whatever I want, I'm afraid. I'm bound by what is already in an individual's mind. If they cannot move past something... the only thing I can do is to try to help them do so, though I know I do not always succeed. I try my best to paint what I believe they need, but of course I make mistakes, my dear. All I can do is try my best." 

I stepped forward, approaching the rotting house on the wall. I pressed my hand against the door, shivering at the cool porcelain-like material beneath my fingertips. Somehow, the house seemed familiar. Somehow, the peeling paint felt like a long-lost home. I blinked once, twice, and turned back to the Dream Painter. 

"Do I know this place?" 

"Of course you do." 

I waited, expecting the man to continue, but he only began walking further down the hall. I huffed at the lack of explanation, but I followed him anyway, intent to push the issue. This I soon forgot as we passed a strange painting of a rabbit standing on two legs, a melting clock behind it with a fish laying on top. Overhead, a fairy floated by with glitter-covered wings as it lugged a businessman's suitcase behind it. 

"Why do you paint things like that?" I asked, "What's the point of those weird fever dreams?" 

"Everyone needs a laugh sometimes," The Dream Painter chuckled, "and they make for a fun story to tell friends in the waking hours. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know." A scowl found its way to my lips as my mood grew sour. The amazement I felt at my surroundings had faded, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth. "You never seem to paint me any dreams. Why don't I get to see these sights?" 

The Dream Painter stopped abruptly, and I nearly walked directly into him. He stared at me, eyes wide and brows furrowed. If I had told him he and everyone he loved would die tomorrow, he would have looked less horrified than he did now. He gaped like a fish out of water. 

"What do you mean?" 

I pursed my lips. "I haven't dreamt since I was young. Is it because I don't sleep well enough?" 

"My dear, I thought I told you when you first arrived that we are in your dreamscape," The Dream Painter said, shaking his head. "Every dream we've passed has been yours." 

I froze. "The house," I whispered, "That was my grandmother's old summer home, wasn't it?" 

He smiled, a sly humor present in his grin. "You never did trust that cottage, did you?" "The melting clock and the strange rabbits, fish, and the fairy?" 

"Last month, you went to New York to see Salvador Dalí's paintings—I've always loved his art, did you know that? Humanity can create such wonderful things sometimes. I'd like to think they take after me. But anyways, you got sick afterwards with a dire fever. You fell asleep to children's cartoons." 

"Why don't I remember any of it?" I asked. My anger had dissipated, leaving only weakened frustration behind. "I'd love to remember these paintings. Why can't I keep these gifts?" 

Misery written all over his face, The Dream Painter looked nearly choked with tears. He didn't say a word, just took off down the hall, waving for me to follow him. I ran to catch up, distantly surprised that such an old-looking man could be so fast. He wasn't human, after all, and was clearly much more powerful than I had first surmised him to be. 

"Where are we going?" I asked, finally caught up with him. He never took his eyes away from what was in front of him. "Please, I just want to know." 

"I cannot control what goes on in the waking world," The Dream Painter said, "and that includes what you remember. But if you truly can't remember what you dream, then I'd at least like to show you one painting I made for you quite some time ago. You must see it before you go." 

I had long since stopped wondering how this room worked, endlessly unfurling no matter how far you walked, yet still allowing you to get close to the walls if there was a painting you desired to see. I simply walked with the old man. We passed painting after painting, scene after scene, and I realized with a start I could recognize quite a few of their inspirations. An old movie I watched as a child, my neighbor's pet parakeet, a story I told to my nephew. I longed to stare at them for longer, yet I somehow knew my time in this place was running out. None of these were what The Dream Painter wanted me to see. 

Finally, he stopped, and I gazed up at the mural in front of me. I gasped. 

Three times my height, the scene towered over us. My childhood-self stood in the center, a piercing grin on my lips and overgrown bangs covering my eyes. My father stood at my side, my dog Lucy at my heel. My grandpa knelt beside me while my grandma pressed her lips against my cheek in a gesture I always pretended I hated, but secretly loved. Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared. 

It was a portrait of everyone I had lost. 

"I’d almost forgotten to mention what I like to think is the most important role dreams fill." The Dream Painter's voice was soft this time, flowing through the air like watercolor. "They allow us to see our loved ones again, just for one last time. There, they can remind us not to cry, or they can wipe away our tears. We can hear them say I love you just once more." 

Through my tears, I chuckled. "I love it," I whispered, "Thank you." 

I stayed there for a long time, finally able to see their faces again—like all dreams, the vision was hazy, yet they looked even more familiar than photos did. They looked of cookies and fishing, of playing and singing. They looked exactly as I remembered them… Reality hadn’t tainted their features. 

I wrapped my arms around The Dream Painter. He faltered, but then hugged me back. 

"I'm very glad you like it," he said, "I truly am." 

I found my gaze being pulled to the wall behind me. I removed my arms from the old man. Blank, clear as snow, I took a step towards the wall, and The Dream Painter seemed to instantly know what I was thinking. I looked up at him with my silent request. He kissed my forehead—a fatherly, caring gesture laced with protectiveness and love—and handed me his paintbrush. I took it between two fingers, twisting the wooden tool stained with colorful memories. I looked up at him as he spoke. 

"Go ahead, my dear. What would you like to dream?" 

I slid the brush against the wall, a gradient of pink and purple trailing behind. Back and forth, up and down, streaks slowly morphing into sky. I dipped the brush into the palette The Dream Painter held out to me, paint dyeing the bristles golden. Circling the brush on my endless canvas, a smile tugged on my lips; the sunset was beautiful. 

I lost myself in the process. The motion soothed me, stilled my anxious heart. The blinding white walls behind me seemed to fade from existence as the paintbrush disappeared from my hand, the sky expanding until it surrounded me on all sides. Spinning around slowly, I let my gaze linger over each sight—the endless, glowing horizon, the nebulous pink clouds, the rising sun in the east, the remnants of the moon still adorning the west. I inhaled deeply. It smelled like safety. 

I closed my eyes and held my arms out. The Dream Painter had long since vanished, but I knew he was never gone. As if in response to my thoughts, a voice like honey drifted across the horizon. I smiled as I listened to his words. 

"Good morning, my dear." 

My eyes drifted open to a room filled with color and shadows. Sunlight drifted in through the crack in my curtains, bathing my whole bedroom in golden hues. I flexed my fingers, enjoying the soft fabric of the faded quilt overtop me, encasing my limbs in a comfortable cocoon. I felt no need to move, the morning atmosphere humming to me as the glow of my clock gently reminded me it was half past nine. But it was a Saturday, my one day off, and I thanked the stars for the freedom I had to relax. 

I had no desire to leave my bed; I wanted to prolong this feeling of peace for as long as I could. Because, for the first time in many years, I was well rested. 

And, oh, what a wonderful dream I had.