What Dreams are Made Of_Part Nine: A Life So Surreal.

It had to be a dream. He'd fallen forward and bumped his head on the black iron base of his easel. He must be lying on the studio floor unconscious and alone. His vision blurred briefly and then his left hand shot up involuntarily to shield his eyes against the glow. He glimpsed it gradually like a child peeking between his fingers. It could not be.

An impasto moon with modeled hills and incised trenches produced by some colossal painting knife loomed large enough to touch. Stars speckled around it like punctuation points of light against indigo clouds. Near the horizon the painted fir and pine trees emerged from patchwork white. Rich texture and detail dappled ground and sky, along every tree branch, rock and hill in every direction.

For a moment he felt like fainting. A sudden flash of recognition had informed him that the handiwork here…was his own. But how?             

The air grew suddenly cold and he began to feel how heavily his worn t-shirt and faded jeans failed against the wailing wind. His feet were freezing and his socks were already wet from the icy ground. All around him was this thing so surreal and beautiful that it hurt to look upon. He felt equally full of fascination and fear; his uncertainty was a razor against his skin. To stand and walk in some direction seemed the only possible thing to do.

He remembered the plan he’d had several days before. It had seemed so simple, and now here he was; lingering at the edge of reason without a clue. He stared briefly up into the liquid blue and headed for the furthest hill, in the direction of the Moon.

To be continued.