Any other day, I would admit that sometimes I fall into pieces, literally. As much as I think over again, I had done that a whole lot more as I grew up. I had taken many personalities tests these seven days. I went to many websites just to make sure what did really happen to me for again hardly be cheering up.
Aside from that, in the so called gloomy weeks, I enjoyed everything related to the dark side, if I may say. I listened to such lonely tunes, I read almost 80 van Gogh's letters to Theo along with the lectures, I slept a lot and not wanted to open my eyes even I had it more than enough, I directly went back to my rented room after class, I just wanted to hide from this world. Maybe a rocket ship can cure.
About van Gogh, I did not know why. I do not know either. The name itself made me so starving to know what happened to him. We all know he was a painter, a great great one. He was a great artist. But once an artist, he was not recognized. There was only a painting sold all his life. Due to his psychological illness, that surely was not a problem. But the suffers were real. How became an impressionist had brought him able to feel more than we do. Like seeing such luminance as reflected on Starry Night, perhaps that was quite a bothering view.
How did it feel, Vincent?
How did it feel to stay in silence and wrest with your mind?
How did it feel to see the luminance around you?
How did it feel to be trapped in the principle you had made?
How did it feel not to be understood by anyone?
How did it feel to write thousands letters to Theo?
How did it feel to be suffered?
We can not perceive ones.
I think I went too far and trapped in my extroverted self which is I actually am not.
I want to be a painter too, then.
Happy birthday, Vincent.
