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STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
I left the same way I walked in. Unchanged. The hinges on the door seemed to lend credence to the mood I was in. Creaky. Groaning. I half-stumbled down the stairs from my loft. Mine now. It used to be Van Gogh's. I thought if I hung out in a place where he had worked I would be inspired. So I found one of his more obscure dwellings, not something frequented by tourists. But the inspiration eluded me. Maybe I've only touched the man in the torment of my soul, not in the creativity of his genius.
What a combo meal that is. My moodiness and Van Gogh's torment. Sometimes when I paint I go somewhere else. Sometimes. Then there are times when I'm so adhered to earth that I feel like gravity is made out of super glue. But I used to paint like a person possessed. I made a small name for myself with my almost insane use of colors. Well, let's face it, my best works were done while on manics so insane's not a bad word to use.
I walk into the local cafe and order an amaretto. I'm sipping it on the patio and watching the students and tourists. I've really been searching for something but I don't know what. Sometimes I feel that all those fairy tales I heard about God when I was a kid are actually true. But that's nonsense. That's why they're fairy tales. If God existed, surely He'd not allow Vincent to suffer. Or me to suffer. Or anyone else.
I go back to the loft and look at the empty canvas for a good, long while. Why paint at all? Because I love it, I breathe it, it's part of me, the way a keyboardist plays for hours when there's nobody there. Because they love it. I begin to paint, and I don't know why but I start to paint a cross. That's not me. I have always avoided painting anything religious. But it's coming out now. Rugged wood. Dark storm clouds. A hill. A drizzling rain. Shadows and people looking up at the Cross. And then I painted the most amazing thing I have ever done. A man on the Cross. Beaten. Bloody. Battered. And yet, hanging in there, like someone with a purpose. The colors are coming out of my brush like I'm a man hypnotized by what I'm seeing. And finally, it's done. Almost. For some strange reason I haven't painted the eyes. And so I begin. What a look. Then I stand back to look at my masterpiece. And a masterpiece it is but in some horrible way, like I'm looking at so much pain that it can't be real. Then it dawns on me. Our suffering. He suffered far more. And a weariness washes over me. And I fall to my knees. And I look up at those eyes. And they're baring my soul to its core. And I weep and weep and beg Christ to forgive me. And He does.
It's been several years since that night and when I look up now at the night sky, I am at peace. For the starry, starry night is beautiful and I revel in the One who made it all.
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