Van Gogh.
A letter to…
“I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say ‘he feels deeply, he feels tenderly’.” — Vincent
I’ve met you in gold, right where the path ended. Nevermore, forevermore. A dream can be that of an illusion awakened. Vincent, Vincent… what of your art? What of your yellow, if not the hand of some believer’s God?
The darkening and lowering night offers an almost Magrittian light to your field of vision. What’s going on in your mind? And what in mine?
I once wrote a short story inspired by your Wheatfield with Crows, and honestly, it was one of my best. It’s not because of me though, but the power of the light in you. In your painting.
There are so many things I wish I could tell you, but I am not one for long and thoroughly thought-out stories. So here are my thoughts to you, a bit as they come in the next minute, or hour, or two.
I open a space between us, for us to meet as writer and reader (me as the latter). I feel like I could talk to you just through the golden yellow, but I am a woman of words… so I pick up my Kindle and buy a moment with your voice, your letters.
Are you scared? Because I’m scared too. I too, feel. And I don’t want to…Will the sadness in fact last forever?
Attention to detail is something I lack even during nights like this, when reading your words presses my hear closer to the 11 p.m. night rain knocking on the window. It’s dark here, and I wouldn’t know what else to say.
[…].
