Imagine


Imagine an artist. Let's say Van Gogh and his (unappreciated during his lifetime) post-impressionist paintings. Let's say that during his time, somebody rich recognizes his genius and commissions him to paint a ginormous portrait of said rich person's mansion.

So Van Gogh sits down at his easel and one of his old canvases, and wondered if he should do it with pen and ink under-drawing or with just diluted oils. He finally decides on one, and sets the stage for something spectacular.

He brushes, he strokes. He paints over the half-finished smiling face of the foreign lady, Lady Gioconda or something. She looks oddly familiar. Hmmm. He had found the old canvas lying in some dusty old shed during one of his travels.

He hides a signature at the corner of the easel. He puts his style into his painting. He used all the tricks of the trade, and some more of his own. As with all artists, he is unable to produce a painting that is not perfect. He pours so much of his own soul into the painting that in a sense, this painting becomes him.

Hours pass by and his base is done. Then the background. Then the mansion.

Day turns to night and it is time to go home. As he lives a few miles away and travels by foot, he cannot carry the oil painting with him. No matter, I'll come back and fill in the features of the house tomorrow, he thinks as he gingerly puts the half finished painting in a spare room of the mansion.

***************************************************************

Dawn breaks and he happily skips (yes, skips) to finish his work on the painting. When he reaches the mansion, the door was open. I'll just pop in and get my easel, he thinks.

A gasp of horror reaches his remaining ear. He realizes that it's his own. He stares, horrified at his painting. Somebody had... had... changed the painting! Instead of his turquoise sky in the background, somebody had painted an ugly mucus-green over it! Instead of the original 3 storey mansion, somebody had added another wobbly looking floor in a distinctively amateurish style that was absolutely unlike any of Van Gogh's!

"I added in something of my own. It'd be much more impressive if the building looked foreboding, don't you think?"

The owner of the mansion proudly appeared in the corridor, as if proud of his accomplishments in ruining the painting.

Impressive? The roof looks like it's caving in! The sky literally looks like shit! The entire painting is ruined! All his hard work, all his heart and soul that went into the painting, ruined! His style was disrespected. His dignity was disrespected. His painting was disrespected. He was disrespected.

He stands there for a moment, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, not knowing what to say or do. Then he starts seeing red. It was as if the world was suddenly covered in red. Boiling blood pounds in his temples.

With superhuman strength, Vincent Van Gogh lifts the ginormous canvas painting off the easel in rage, tears the entire thing apart, and throws the shreds at the man who disrespected him.

Then he stomps out of the building, never to be seen at the mansion again.

***************************************************************

I wish I could tear down the paintings too.

How would you feel if someone disrespects your work?

Hey Big Brother


Happy Birthday.

We love you.

Ouch


It seems harder for me to rebound emotionally now.

He said something unintentionally last night over dinner, and it actually hurt quite badly. He caught his mistake, and he tried to make up for it, but the damage was already done.

How can it hurt this much? How could it have stung so badly that I can still feel the ringing in my ears now, as if he's just slapped me across the face?

I could just pretend to have forgotten about it after awhile and latch right back on to his arm, and I did. Clinging on to his arm while we walked around, I found that I couldn't smile at him. Not that night.

Other painful stuff are starting to resurface now. I think I need to go get my life back.

......


I'm so scared.

I don't want to live my life through and then wonder how I got there.

I want to remember.....

Hiatus


I've found somewhere else to vent. Somewhere not as heavily monitered as here.

Don't worry. I'll be back with snippets.

:)