Dreamscape

Date: 1983

Location: Villon, Paris.

Author: Penelope Thornhill 

 

Miss Verena told me today that the peach tree Papa and I planted before I left for Paris had begun blooming! I’ve yet to return to the estate, but I’m eager as ever for summer’s arrival. Catching that ferry ride is truly spectacular, especially when a flowering peach tree is awaiting your arrival. God, how much I wish I were seated beneath its shade right now; scattered rays of warmth dancing across my face, listening to bees hum drunken hymns between blossoms, the soft breezes of summer caressing me like a mother — nature’s personal theatre. 

 

Papa used to tell me stories of princesses from far-away lands who frolicked in fields of flowers of every colour, lying down felt like sleeping upon a rainbow. His words slowly blurred into a dreamscape of fluttering butterflies, songbird’s melodies and flora that seemed to be alive — joyful and careless as if the strains of reality could not reach them. Back then, I was young and oblivious, now, I wish more than ever to bury myself into those dreamscapes again. Nature is truly a paradise, a blissful dreamscape beyond the burdens of reality.

 

Date: 1986

Location: Thornhill Estate, England

Author: Penelope Thornhill

 

It’s been two years since my arrival back at the estate, after seeing my dreamscape come true, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. So I, against the constant warnings of all my family members, dropped out of university to be a daydreamer. I know, I know, a daydreamer sounds just like another term for a homeless person who does nothing but think all day, but there’s something more to it. More importantly, Mother has recently returned from the States, but she’s not really the same anymore. While she used to sit outside, gazing aimlessly at the endless blue sky, she now spends all her time huddled in her room, scribbling endlessly while staring at a strange metal sculpture shaped like a tree.

Then came the day she asked me to accompany her to the States. She said it was to be a fun vacation, but soon after arriving, we were met by men in pristine black suits, standing beside long black limousines guarded by gunned soldiers. Before I could ask anything, we were already on our way to her lab. I tried speaking to her, but she only gazed sorrowfully out the window, distant and hollow, and beneath the hum of the engine, I could just make out faint whispers of “sorry.”

Inside the lab, I was led into a room like a grand theatre, vast and dimly lit, and told to sit tight for a “fun movie.” That—

Date: Unknown

Location: Unknown

Author: Mother

 

The experiment on Penelope is complete. The dreamscape has opened, and nature’s theatre will begin its endless cycle of bliss. 

 

Penelope, don’t ever forget I love you; this paradise I’ve built is because of that unconditional love.

 

Love, Mum

 

Date: Unknown

Location: Unknown

Author: Penelope?

 

I didn’t know when the “movie” ended nor when the dreamscape began — time doesn’t seem to exist here, or at least my sense of it has disappeared as everything is blurring into one moment. A glance there and a field of rainbows sprouted miraculously; another glance and that once-blooming field appeared elsewhere, exactly the same, every petal identical, every colour unchanged. 

 

It was blissful at first, or at least it seemed so when my memory marked the beginning of this dreamscape. But now that bliss is repeated — a delicious cuisine served so often that I would sooner swallow soil than to taste another bite. 

 

Here, I’ve counted 134,029 sunsets and sunrises, each day beginning with that same hummingbird singing that same melody — one more note and I fear insanity would claim me. At exactly noon, or at least the time in which the sun was highest, bees began their pollinating journey, dancing around the fields, their hymns now that of flies mocking me to swat them down. 

 

Insanity began to overwhelm me — bliss wasn’t an endless dream that one wanted to bury themselves in, it’s a reward that comes only with hardship — beautiful only because it can be lost so quickly. A blooming flower has no sentimental value if it does not wilt, nor does a tree need to be tended if it does not eventually die. 

 

It was then, in my endless wandering of this perfect dreamscape that I found an “error in the code”. 

 

At the very edge of the dreamscape, there, breaking through the immaculate rows of grass, grew a single crooked, almost dying, weed. It was ugly sure, but it was the hardship I needed. Everyday, I would walk down to the river and bring water to the small weed. Soon, I had settled down next to the weed which had now stretched its roots to grow a few offshoots. Soon I saw a crack in the perfect code that created the dreamscape, and soon the paradise started to rot. 

 

So I lay myself down upon the darkening earth and welcomed its impurities. Beneath me, the soil was cool and tender, its damp breath rising softly against my skin. Wild blades of grass, no longer trimmed to perfection, brushed carelessly against my arms like silk blankets. A crooked breeze, untamed and wild, wandered through the fields, threading itself through my hair with the delicate touch of a mother tucking her child to sleep. Around me, petals loosened from their stems and drifted earthward in quiet surrender, painting the Earth in nature’s palate.

 

Soon, with the world around me crumbling, my weary eyes closed for the final time, I did not dream of paradise. I dreamed of rainstorms and winters, of blossoms that wilted, forests that burned and grew anew, rivers that carved mountains grain by grain, and life in all its fleeting, imperfect, magnificent cruelty. 

 

At last, I was no longer trapped in bliss.

 

Writer – Michael Song
Editor – Alvin Cheng
Artist – Tammy Ding

–May 2026–