Then I Painted His Dream

I dream my painting, and then I paint my dream,” wrote Van Gogh. For years, I doubted the myth, the worship, the idea of a single man birthing a school of art. But to make peace with a ghost, sometimes you must step into his dream. This is not a tribute — it is a trespass. Where he painted what he saw, I chose to see what he dreamed. I entered his sky, sat beside his sadness, borrowed his yellow moonlight. And within that turbulence, I whispered my own color. It is a dialogue. A crossing of time. A moment where his visions and my hands touched — and left a trace.