As an artist I have always been fascinated by the human mind. Vincent Van Gogh, was an artistic genius whose paintings have stood as a testament of his gift, yet he was incredibly conflicted man, who suffered immense difficulty and spent most of life grappling with an illness that literally arrested every facet of his mental and emotional faculties. It is incredibly sad, that in our society we have such a restraint on what it means to be normal and I wonder had he lived today, would we still call him a Genius or would we attempt to medicate his intelligence into submission. I too have battled with depression and anxiety. This piece is as much a reflection of my journey, and my own personal struggle as it is a mantra to all those who continue to fight this battle on daily basis.
Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk,
but no flowers grow on it.
– Vincent Van Gogh
A 2015 MEDIA PORTRAYAL FOR VINCENT VAN GOGH
Mr Van Gough,
Can we talk about paths.
Roads lined with dusty old cliches
About roads being paved with good intentions.
Because I’ve stumbled down this highway many a time
And cannot fathom my left from my right?
Maybe this road was just an intentional roadblock.
Like one’s less travelled.
Like Highways leading to heaven
and some down to hell.
Like the road runs deeper
than a river could ever flow in you.
So the notes have been bombastically pulled
from out of the depths.
So we’ve clung to these wasted bits of time.
Would you paint portraits for me?
Build an empire for me
Or would you lay this city to waste.
After all what was it that drove you to insanity.
What was it that made your mind explode
Like the fourth of July.
Could you not bury these works of art.
Could you not intentionally harm yourself.
Could you not stab the paint with force.
Did you really believe that you could create beauty
From all of this.
Vincent, pick up your sword
And follow me.
Become futile Vincent.
Become courageous Vincent.
Don’t dare speak at all.
Don’t dare declare that your mind had fallen apart.
Don’t dare admit that you were meant for the electrical chair.
After all you would be held against your will
contained to the museum of hospital beds.
You are sick Vincent.
Not even the stars could hold you.
But you painted that night sky anyway.
You are the worlds largest circus act
and you ride the trapeze,
balancing between the extremes of consciousness
and something akin to blatant meritocracy.
If not for the time lapse between
Your existence and 2015,
Then I am sure your body
Would have been committed to memory.
Your mind lobotomized because lets face it,
Vincent There is no room for your kind of beauty, Vince.
There is no room for your brand of brilliance.
You belong to the pill bottle.
You belong to the sanatorium.
Your world a sterile environment for mad scientists
who call themselves nurses,
Answer only to doctor.
Now paint that,
Mr. Vincent Van Gough
This piece was originally published at onthegrid.wordpresscom ( A online zine dedicated to Mental Health) I highly recommend checking them out