About Vincent van Gogh and I
At last, the crushing state of despair has turned into a poetic melancholy of sorts.
My body is no longer immerged in pain, but rather floating on the surface of it, the phantom pain still present in my very being, but my mind has been dulled by art with which I surrounded myself, gifting me with the sudden urge to create.
I envy master van Gogh. How unbelievably amazing it is that he took his pain snd passion and used them to show how beautiful and light this world is.
When this particular state of mind strikes me in the soul like a poisoned arrow, I can't help but relish in the darkness of this world, embrace it with my whole being and channel that into what I call art.
Master Vincent makes me feel ashamed. He struggled to make something beautiful while I pile my thoughts and feelings onto paper like bile, basking in my "realistic ideologies" and how in these moments I "see the truth", when in reality that what I call my creation, my legacy, is nothing but hopeless whines of a hurt animal, that doesn't understand anything, let alone its purpose in this world.
