"To suffer without complaining is the only lesson that has to be learned in this life", locked behind bars for being "mentally unstable" a man spoke words which a wise man could never. I know that you never wanted to hurt them, I know you were alone, I knew you felt pain more than them when you wrote," I wont hide from you that I would prefer to die than cause and bear so much trouble". How could you, how could a person who lives in this cruel society could absorb that much pain and still reflect swirling bring night through his teary eyes? At times I sit with my fingers dipped in paint, I touch blue and brush my fingers against the canvas, I feel the depth and calmness and I put my small fingers in white paint and draw small dots which always makes the painting more bright and never gets noticed, but the palette? The palette belongs to the yellow, the same paint you used to eat to colour your inner organs so that you could feel happiness, the same way you let a thieving crow eat your food. The loneliness and sadness is still there Vincent, everytime I wipe my tears I paint yellow on my face,everytime I feel alone I paint yellow on my doors in a hope that someone would come, everytime I write I paint yellow on my wounds, we all have our version of yellow. At present when I look through your eyes, I saw you had a vision of life, "the way to know life is to love many things" but I couldn't help but fall in love with you and your art. How terrible you would've felt when you offered a part of your body and got nothing but agony dripping down your sheets whether in colours or in blood and you knew that you were an artist for future, because "for wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning" right? How to tell you all this? How to make this letter reach you? "I could've told you Vincent this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you", you lived your life in pain and now we could do nothing but admire what a soul you were and that scares me the most, you will never know how much people love you, that you are not alone anymore, that you own a museum now,that people still put flowers on your grave and it scares me how you would never know that your sight of life is a dream for many now. What is so beautiful in death, Vincent? That people start loving the ones who were never noticed? How you said, "a great fire burns withing me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it and passersby only see a wisp of smoke", people are now burning in that fire, this is what death can do and it amazes me how powerful it is and how scared humans are of it. I dont know about others but I can see your journey from pain to paint. I dont know anything with certainty Vincent, but the sight of your starry night always makes me dream. ~rhapsodist
1. If you've read this, and it offends you, CRY ME A FUCKING RIVER. Or un-read it. Buy a time machine, go back in time, to the exact second you stumbled 'round this post, and blindly scroll past through it. Go ahead, and try that. If you can't, just shut up.
2. I am angry. I am frustrated. And I know exactly who I've written this for. The 'You' in here can be interpreted personally, but that's all about your freedom of mind and perception, don't try to join the dots for any assumptions you might be entertaining about what I've written specifically. I'll come after you equally if you try to disrespect anything/anybody thinking this is an opportunity to add credibility to your unwarranted biases that exist just for the sake of it. I'll tolerate blind hatred of no kind, and against nobody. I've written this on the facts that I've experienced and the position where I belong; and utilizing it, is my right. It might not necessarily be yours.
You're ofcourse very free to add, or share your own positive/negative experiences, those are heartily welcomed.
And to the You, I've written this for; I hope you die soon. I really do. I'm never the one to say this, and will most probably never wish the same on someone ever ever again, but You, You deserve it. The lives you've ruined and continue to do so, I hope you're grilled to your very bones and even the worms refuse to fart you out in the atmosphere. I believe in kindness more than anything in this world, but being kind to You, would mean that I'm cruel to the people that did NOTHING to deserve it. Please die. Let the world breathe in the air without your presence in it. I HONESTLY CAN'T WAIT FOR THAT DAY.
I sit on the floor and You have a problem with my leg curving 30° to the right just slight enough for my knee to fold the rest of it inside and my bare ankle to be visible enough to provoke my cousin sitting besides. It's not the silhouette of the meat in my thighs, through my overused viscose trousers that should make him want to have seekh kebabs it's your own wrongful speculation, or dare I say desire an agonizing one; haraam, in an otherwise pious fasting bond.
I, out of habit, correct my posture and continue to giggle at my nephew that drew his elder sister a doodle of a teddy bear, he's too young to know how to spell teddy bear, or the concept of alphabets even His kindergarten mother is one to complain all the time, of him mispronouncing F for S-F-R-O-G, phonic sounds a little too tedious for his toddler mind, but according to You, very well qualifies the lower-limit to know my six-year old sibling's innocent nipple accidentally slipping through her petticoat's side hem while playing house, is a sign of I-M-M-O-D-E-S-T-Y. My mother instinctively pushes the sleeve back up, and stares at the homely Rapunzel, who's always busy beaming with questions about the world beyond the tower's horizon, like her most favourite princess. But the longing sight that bestows her sore eyes, is more often something else instead-- big black beautiful mommy eyes, overdosed on lethargy, yet unmistakably blazing with a tinge of warning and a manual of instructions; ofcourse the little lady knows she made a mistake not watching out on how she sits, and moves. And ofcourse, the boy doesn't know what it feels like, why it feels just knows it's R-O-N-G without knowing what it means. It hurts, so much to see. It were never those dewy-eyed babies who knew the differentiation, by default it's Your filthy vocabulary, and disgusting denotations that infiltrates innocence and trades 'em for manners instead; teaches how to spell, only to sell promiscuous words to children.