Nobody knows when the dreams began. Some say they started the day a small raccoon launched a kite into the sky and accidentally tugged on a passing cloud. Others insist it happened much earlier, when the Sun first noticed him and decided to smile back.
In his dreams, the world behaves strangely but politely. A striped house sits in a field of violet grass and quietly pretends to be a sleeping tail. Glass spheres contain entire deserts, cows, and occasional flying saucers, as if reality had been packed for travel and forgotten on a shelf. Transparent dragonflies drift across the sky carrying pieces of sunlight in their wings. Glass cubes stack themselves into impossible towers, and sometimes a goldfish appears inside the highest cube, apparently convinced that air is simply water with better views. The raccoon never questions any of this. He is far too busy reaching toward suns, watching eclipses through pieces of glass, riding horses toward dawn, and flying transparent gliders over clouds made from the smoke of his own chimney.
The remarkable thing is that he never catches what he is reaching for. Not the dragonfly, not the Sun, not even the golden fish. Yet he always looks pleased about it. Perhaps he understands something humans often forget: dreams are not treasure chests to be opened but roads to be wandered. And so each morning, somewhere between the lavender grass and the blue sky, the little raccoon wakes up, stretches, and begins another impossible day. The Sun rises. The glass sparkles. The goldfish thinks about philosophy. And the dream continues.
#dreams, #racoon, #surrealism, #olav_art
