Van Gogh, Self in Blue

Breathe Vincent. Breathe. The air is sparse. It's hard to get it through. I know. Take the twists. Take the turns. Take the turmoil and channel it into the air. The air in arabesques all around you. And when you can, take it in. Breathe it in and become one with the clearness, one with the wind and the clouds. But the pulsing won't stop. The pain won't stop. I know. And maybe we cannot escape it. Maybe we try. And maybe we fail. I know transcendence is not always possible, but maybe, just maybe, we can try. But it hurts. It hurts so badly. I don't think we can escape. Then let's embrace it. The pain can make us who we are. And we get to decide how it aids the creation of our existence. We can take it as air. We can take the pain and take its movement and allow it to proppell us into the beyond. Up into the clouds. Up into the wind. Up into the stars. Do you think we can? Yes. I know we can. And I know we will. 

 

It's his eyes. It's his soul that I can see. Manifested in the motion. The swirls surrounding him. The same swirls surrounding me.