It was early Friday morning, and the man sat at his desk, looking from his computer monitor to the rust-caked window. He slid it open, desperately hoping for some fresh morning air as he rubbed his dry eyes, trying to wake himself up.
People were bustling out of the nearby apartment complex on their way to the subway station. The man’s home was in the slanted alley on the first floor, in a sunken space resembling a basement. It would have been better if it were truly underground. At least then his rent would’ve been cut by fifty thousand won.
“Hey, on my way to work now. Any plans tonight? It’s Friday.”
The outside world was alive with the energy of the approaching weekend, the noise of people making plans carrying along the streets. The man felt hopelessly adrift looking at them through the window.
I’m the only loser here... Locking myself away, making a big fuss about trying to create music... Is my dream bigger than my talent? I wish someone would show me where the line ends between ambition and delusion...
The man had been focusing on composing original music for an audition that he’d barely managed to get. The right song was proving hard to come by.
His dream was to become a singer. It was the only dream he’d ever had. When he was very young, he’d signed with a small record company, but his debut fell through when he was in his midtwenties. Time flew by and he was now twenty-nine.
He’d been posting his cover videos on social media; earlier that year, one of them briefly went viral. It had even led to the opportunity to audition for a big record label. But their response after the audition set him back to square one.
“We expected your voice to have more color. How about writing your own songs? We can wait. Consider this another chance.”
The man worked part-time jobs, desperate to make ends meet. He wanted to join a composing academy or take lessons to master new instruments, but he had neither time nor money. He asked around and managed to get his hands on some composing software. He installed it and taught himself how to write his own songs.
Some months, he spent more money than he earned; other months, when he tightened his belt, he’d be lucky to save a few dozen bucks. He was trapped on a hamster wheel with no progression.
He made changes to the melody and practiced his original song until his throat burned. He was running out of time to finish the piece before the audition. He just needed one catchy tune, and he felt like he was almost there. So, he’d stayed up all night working on it.
His eyes were stiff and he was hungry. There was nothing to eat at home. The convenience store was just a five-minute walk away, but he didn’t like going there during morning rush hour. The thought of being the only one with eyebags walking against the crowd as everyone else hurried to work was revolting.
The man listened closely to the outside bustle. He paid attention to people’s footsteps and voices, seeking inspiration for his music, pressing keys similar to each sound on his keyboard.
The man tried to incorporate the voice of the passerby who’d been talking on the phone as a motif. He wanted to capture the relaxed nature of stable, full-time workers and their excitement for the weekend. Still, the song was not quite satisfying. The pedestrian’s anticipation of a restful weekend was not something the man could have. He couldn’t even imitate what it might feel like.
The man had decided. He’d weighed the sacrifices he’d need to make to pursue what he wanted. He’d given up an ordinary life because he couldn’t give up on his dream. At some point, this earnest desire to be a singer had become an inextricable part of him. He couldn’t picture himself wanting to be anything else. And he strived to accept his state of mind as it was.
He continued to work on the music in his cramped room. The secondhand computer sounded like it might burst as it struggled to run the heavy software beyond its capacity. Frustrated, the man shut down the music-making program, then opened the search engine and typed the first thing that came to mind.
When you’re frustrated.
When you feel like you’re nobody.
When you have a dream but no talent.
There were similar questions but no satisfactory answers.
Do we have to be successful? If you’ve done your best, isn’t that already a success?
It wasn’t what he wanted to hear right now.
The man typed “inspiration” into the search engine, hoping that it might ignite something within him.
Inspiration—the process of being mentally stimulated to do something creative.
It was what he’d been longing for all this time, but didn’t yet have. He knew inspiration likely wouldn’t come to him through a search engine, but he was desperate. He changed his search keywords to more concrete things.
How to get inspiration.
As soon as he clicked “search,” a list of countless videos and web pages followed. He started scrolling, struggling to fight off exhaustion. Then his eyes stopped at one particular webpage.
Geniuses Who Gained
Inspiration from Dreams
According to a biography of Paul McCartney and the Beatles, McCartney composed “Yesterday” in a dream. As soon as he woke up, he went straight to the piano and played the tune before he forgot it. He was concerned, however, that he may have listened to another that had stayed in his subconscious and manifested in his dream.
“For a month, I went to everyone I knew in the music industry to check if they’d heard the same song before. I felt like I was returning a lost item to the police station. I had no one claiming this song for several weeks, and so I decided I could claim it as mine.”
That was how a true classic of our time, “Yesterday,” was born—out of a dream...
The structure of benzene proposed by the German chemist August Kekule von Stradonitz is another widely known case of a dream-inspired innovation. Kekule dreamed of a snake biting its own tail, which in turn inspired him to think of the benzene ring. It was a move away from the conventional theory that molecular structures are in linear forms...
Extreme drowsiness poured over him. The more he tried to focus on the letters, the heavier his eyelids became.
He dozed off on his computer desk. Just as he fell asleep, melodies filled his mind, and he drifted away wrapped in a cloud of music.
The dream store staff is lining up at the front desk with their gift cards, ready to trade them in for a free dream.
“Everyone, please keep in line and let us know what dream you want. We have to complete all purchases before lunch. Do try to select dreams that are reasonably priced—you guys work here, after all,” Weather instructs from the front desk.
“What should I get?” Penny asks her coworkers as she waits in line.
“Here’s a tip. If you have no idea what to buy, just follow Motail,” Mogberry says. Motail’s near the front, jockeying for position with Speedo.
“Speedo, I was here first.”
“I’m sorry, but I just hate waiting in line. Can I please just cut ahead?”
“That’s nonsense! Please go back to the end of the line.” Motail won’t budge. His long hair swings sideways as Speedo keeps pushing against him.
“Those two are at it again,” Penny observes, but then returns to the point, asking, “But what do you mean, always follow Motail?”
“Penny, have you ever wondered how those two got hired here?”
“I mean, I see how fast and efficient Speedo is. I heard he’s the only one here who can process nap dreams inventories at volume.” At first, Penny didn’t quite get how Speedo became the fourth-floor manager—but then she saw him in action. No matter how much work he has, he always manages to finish everything by the end of the day. There is no such thing as overtime in Speedo’s world.
“How about Motail?” Mogberry asks.
“Motail...makes great sales. He’s a natural marketer.”
“It’s not just that. I’m pretty sure he’s siphoning off more than he’s selling. And, of course, Dallergut knows.”
“Then why is Dallergut still letting him work here?” Penny asks.
“Because every dream Motail decides to either sell or siphon off has turned out to be a hit! He finds pearls in the mud. Last year, he chose a new dream from an unknown dreammaker. People scoffed at him that he was putting his gift card to waste, but later, that dream became a huge success.”
When it’s Penny’s turn, she heeds Mogberry’s advice and asks for the same dream as Motail.
“I’m sorry, Penny, but that one’s out of stock,” Weather says apologetically. “Why is everybody asking for the same thing as Motail?”
“Oh no... Can you tell me what dream he asked for? Just curious.”
“It was called ‘Fantasy Elevator.’ Basically, if you think of a place you want to visit, you board an elevator and its doors open to that desired place. It seems like excellent value—if you can focus during the dream.”
“What a bummer it’s out of stock. Sounds like people into lucid dreaming would love it. I’ll just take a ‘Meeting a Celebrity,’ then.” Penny can’t wait to take a day off and sleep in late to enjoy the dream.
“That’s a wrap! Let’s all get back to work, everyone!” Weather shouts as the staff scatter back to their floors. “Hey, Penny,” she adds. “Can you look after the front desk for a minute? I have to stop by the bank on an errand for Dallergut. You should be good on your own by now, right?”
“Yes, of course!” Penny says assuredly.
Thirty minutes pass, and confident Penny has disappeared. Instead, there’s sweaty Penny, struggling with a male customer who’s giving her a hard time. He’s been bickering with her, groaning that he’s searched everywhere, on all the floors, but still hasn’t found the dream he’s looking for. Weather’s errand is running long, and Dallergut has an off-site meeting with a dreammaker. Penny’s now facing her worst predicament since she started the job.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no such dream here, sir.”
“Please, could you check again? I’d like an inspiration dream. I really need one—right now.” The gaunt man is desperate. His skin is rough and his hair bushy, showing signs of fatigue and malnourishment. His pleading, intense eyes are barely staying open. “I’ve heard stories about the Beatles and Kekule’s benzene ring, and that’s why I’m here! They all said they drew their inspiration from a dream. Are you not allowed to sell to people like me? Is it because those kinds of dreams are too expensive?”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about—what is Beatles? And what is the benzene ring? Please don’t get me wrong, all our payments are processed afterward, so the price will never be a reason to refuse selling our products, sir.”
Penny looks through the store’s brochures but can’t find any “inspiration dreams.” Are there hidden dreams that Penny isn’t aware of? She contemplates for a moment, then calls all the floor managers for help.
“I’ve been a dream salesman my entire life, and I’ve never heard of such a dream. I know basically every dream in the world. Paul McCartney? I’m sure he may have visited us before, although I wouldn’t remember. I don’t really indulge in small talk with customers. But one thing I can guarantee is that there is no such dream anywhere in the world,” Vigo Myers tells the man firmly.
“By the way, you look unwell. Are you okay?” asks Mogberry, concerned.
“Sir, how many hours did you stay up?” Speedo asks, quickly scanning the man’s condition.
“Forty... No, forty-eight hours?”
Everyone shares a deep sigh and sternly says in unison, “The first thing you need is to get some sleep.”
The man is in despair, as if his last remaining hope has been taken away.
“What brings all of you here to the first floor?” says Dallergut, taking off his coat as he arrives back from his off-site meeting.
“Well, the thing is...” Penny explains to Dallergut what’s been going on. Dallergut looks sympathetically at the customer, who brightens up, hoping he might help.
“I think this might do the trick.” Dallergut hands him something. “Please eat it on your way out.”
“Will this give me inspiration?” the man asks excitedly.
“Well, it depends.”
The man receives it with delight and rushes out of the store, clutching it tightly so no one else can see it.
The man slept so deeply that when he woke up it was already late afternoon. His neck was sore from lying slumped over his desk. But his mind was refreshed.
He also realized that all the melodies that had once cluttered his headspace were now sorting themselves out and flowing in order. He played the notes on his keyboard, not knowing where they’d come from.
Have I heard these tunes before? Or did I hear them in my dream? He was unsure. In any case, I should write them down before I forget.
The man started filling in the gaps in the melody to complete the song. He had no idea how it came about, but this was clearly the tune he’d been looking for. He was deeply satisfied with how the song turned out. He couldn’t wait to perform it for others. Tomorrow’s audition would be his first chance.
Time passes before the man returns to the dream store to see Dallergut.
“They loved the song. But more than anyone, I loved it. I wrote the lyrics myself, too. I’m embarrassed to say it, but it’s based on my personal story.” The man is glowing. “I’m recording this week. I wanted to stop by to say thank you. Dreams are a wonder, indeed. It resolved something I’d been wrestling with for so long. I owe you a great deal.” The man bows in respect.
“Actually, there’s no need to thank me at all, sir.”
“Pardon? Then whom should I thank...”
“You should be thanking yourself.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I just gave you a piece of Sleep Candy, that was all. You know, to help you sleep?” Dallergut takes out a couple more Sleep Candies and displays them on his palm. “That dream had been in your mind all along.”
“Really?”
“Inspiration is a convenient word. It suggests that grand ideas might come out of nowhere, emerging across a blank slate. But in fact, a great idea hinges on how much time you spend agonizing over it, and that’s what makes all the difference: whether you spent enough time searching for the answer or not. That’s the key. My friend, you just stuck around and agonized until you found your answer.”
“So, does that mean I do have talent? Do you think I can succeed?”
“I believe you know that better than anyone else. I’m no expert. But I do suggest sleeping as much as you work. Especially if you’re filling your days with singing. Sleep will help you organize everything that’s in your mind.”
“Is that so? I still want to thank you regardless. Just for...everything.” The man is eager to express his gratitude.
Dallergut’s half embarrassed, half pleased. An idea comes to him and he touches his lips. “If you’re thankful... Would you let me create a dream based on your story?”
“On my story? What for?”
“Well, I’ve been talking with a dreammaker friend of mine about our next lineup, and I need some story samples. But we’d need to get your approval to use your story. Of course, we completely understand if you refuse.”
“What’s your next lineup?”
“It’s not set in stone yet, but we do have a working title. It’s called ‘Lives of Others.’ We plan to roll out the trial version first. It’s being made by a very talented dreammaker, so I’m really looking forward to it.”
“That sounds fun! If my story helps in any way, please go ahead and use it.”
“So, that’s a yes?”
“Of course! Dreams are so interesting. It’s also incredible that the word has a double meaning. Come to think of it, is it fair to say I’ve found my dream in a dream?” The man giggles.
He’s in much better spirits than he was during his last visit, Penny thinks. Must be that he’s getting more sleep.
He browses the store for a long while and heads out with two short dream products.
“I have a feeling he’ll become a regular. I might order a new Eyelid Scale for him,” Penny says, as she watches him go.
“You think so? Weather can give you the name of the Eyelid Scale company.”
“Sure, I’m on it,” she replies.
“And one more thing—can you call Yasnoozz Otra and let her know to start on production for the lineup we discussed last time? She’ll be excited to hear that we have the long-awaited sample.”