Of Dreams and Happy Trails (Part 2)

Issue #23 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, March 10, 2024

It was wild, but sometimes I would arrive at my dream state and all I would see would be Leroy waiting on me. Everything else would be white like a blank canvas. And then, slowly, things would start to take shape. Colors would start to leak through. Sounds, smells.

Then there were times like today. Times when the Master Artist had already seen ahead to what world would be the best fit for this particular visit. That usually happened when he’d had time to tune in more closely to my waking so-called real-world existence, then get started early.

Man, I loved dreaming. I really did. Honestly speaking, dreaming was better than living.

And it was. Trust me, if your everyday life was like mine, you’d prefer dreams too. In “real life”, I worked at a fast food restaurant. No need to say which one because one is just like the other. Each one of them just a bland gray replica of the same bland gray idea. No need to discuss what my duties were either, because to work at a fast food restaurant is to simply not matter. Nobody asks what you do at a fast food restaurant, because the fact that you work at a fast food restaurant tells them all they feel they need to know about you.

But today (or maybe it was evening since I was dreaming) I was standing in the middle of a forever expanse of what looked like tall, waist-high emerald green grass that stretched far into the distance, swaying to the sounds of soft Middle Eastern music that was somehow being amplified via blueish orange clouds that floated high above in a paisley sky.

I know, right?

I had never taken acid in my life, or any other drug that made you see things, but this had to be what that was like, and I liked it.

“So how does this strike you?”

Coming from behind me, it was a strange-sounding voice, as if it were being strained through a tin can. I could tell right away it wasn’t Leroy so I turned around. Then looked down at what appeared to be a mirage of a being, transitioning in and out of various forms and shapes like an ancient television set that couldn’t settle on the right channel.

“Are you the…?”

“Yes.”

“…Master Artist…”

Fixing into a shape that resembled Yoda in Star Wars, the being smiled and nodded its head.

“So I ask again; how does all this strike you? Do you like it?”

“Of course I do. I always like it. I love it. Why do you think I keep coming back? But this,” I said, stretching out my arms to indicate the full size, shape, and beauty of this particular dream, “is beyond. I can’t remember another one that was this good.

The Master Artist smiled wider as his hold on the Yoda shape began to fade into something else, something round and furry, and paisley like the sky. He nodded approvingly.

“And why do you keep coming back?”

“Because it’s better,” I said.

“Better than…?”

“Real life.”

“I see. And why do you call this existence where you spend most of your time ‘real’ ?”

“Well because…I don’t really know. That’s just how it’s called. Real life.”

“But this is better, you say.”

“Oh, man. It is so much better. I can’t begin to tell you.”

He shape-shifted again into Gandalf the Grey Wizard. The image grew until it towered over me, and the eyes spun and sparked like firewheels.

“I am in need of an apprentice, you know.”

I smiled.

“You don’t say?”