And perhaps, there’s a Vincent Van Gogh version of me. Who put his pain on a canvas and swallowed yellow paint in the hopes that all the darkness within can be painted with sunshine.
But I, on the other hand? I embraced the lack of light, never wanting to find one. I wasn’t sad, not happy either -just somewhere in between. Some have different names for it and maybe I do too. I wasn’t a tortured artist. Maybe just a tortured soul and more of a frustrated artist.
But unlike Van Gogh who swallowed yellow. I never have a canvas. But I have you, who painted me hue. Who sees the darkness in me and still think that I am a masterpiece in the making.
