The great fire

Dear Vincent,

You never saw a starry night, did you? You saw something else. Only you could see that way. So deeply, so ignorantly, so entirely. So universally.

I have written about several things, Vincent. Many many things. All stuff I have struggled with, but none that actually mattered. In fact, writing became a great place to take refuge every time I failed at living. Living—guess what?—what I had written about. Writing became a necessity to deal with my own inadequacies. Soon enough, it became a substitute for living.

You know what I feel most silly about, Vincent? I actually thought I was making art. It’s easy to get caught in the blur of creativity-fueled self-hurt; self-involvement. When I want something to write, I’d think up something new to hate about the world, about myself. The thing about insecurity, Vincent is you never run out of things to loathe. I am afraid not so much that I’ll run out of things to write but that I will never find new things to love.

And then there’s you, living so intensely, your life exploded into your canvas.

I can see now how art can become an easy place to fool yourself. Something you knew all along. Something you stayed wary of to the end. It’s why you were so piously yourself, so veritably passionate, so easily hurt. So contently dead. And you kept loving. You kept at life. A life fraught with judgments, the very thing your art transcended. You saw the Sun in everything, everyone.

Even in the night sky.

You know what I see when I look at the sky, Vincent? I see a metaphor I can rock in my next piece about how the universe is a dissolution for man’s dick desires. I knew very early on that I am not smart, so I had to pretend to be sophisticated.

Remember how you were ricocheting between screaming into a void and cutting off your ear. That seems apropos of the current world order: Too many humans, not enough humanity. Oh, how you spent all your life being so deeply human. We are all trying to become Gods now, Vincent. We are divided not in compassion, but callousness. Our idea of devotion is rejecting (other) Gods. I am constantly torn between laughing and screaming, “What the Fuck!”

In your humanity, I see God, and in Theo’s, a devotee. It’s why I have to keep coming back to art Vincent. To you. And your crazy friends. To artists. Writers. Lovers. I know of no other place to experience devotion and still keep my eyes open. I come to art, as you wished from it, to warm my soul.

Keep burning, old boy.

Love, Always.

Posted in Art

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