Last night I had the artist’s nightmare.

Last night I had the artist’s nightmare. I dreamt I was strolling down a tree-lined street when I found an estate agent’s For Sale sign on a metal board, outside the driveway of a nice old house. 

I had a spray can in my hand and I started to spray the sign with hearts. In my dream state I became even more creative. Even in my unconsciousness, I began to question my own motives, as I sprayed infinity symbols; versions of the number 8 lying on its side. 

The owner of the house emerged, causing a rush of guilt, and I ran until I felt an intense nausea permeate my sleep. Next thing, I was holding the estate agent’s sign all sprayed and dried, and wondering whether this was in fact a work of art. Or should I stencil-spray the face of someone vastly famous, like Elvis or Marilyn, in gold, to add some lustre.

My paranoia escalated as I wondered whether I was in fact making all the wrong decisions in my artistic life. I mean, if the sign were to be exhibited, would the estate agent find me and charge me for a (minor) misdemeanour?

In my sleep, I was intensely aware that my action was negligible when compared with the extreme crimes happening in the world. But I still felt like I needed to go back and dream the entire episode over again.