Loving Vincent

Sitting in the cinema hall, with the lights turned off, I have been thrown into the life Vincent Van Gogh lived in Hague, Paris, Arles and Auvers-sur-Oise more than a century ago. The mind is struggling to follow the plotline; it is lured into every scene that makes the heart tremble. The thoughts are wandering from Starry Night over The Rhone to Café Terrace in Arles on a September night in 1888, and from The Yellow House where Van Gogh shared rooms with his painter friend Paul Gaugin to Wheatfield with Crows, which is believed to have been painted shortly before his tragic death. A story about Vincent is taking shape, slowly, in my mind, and in my heart.

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Patti Smith and my sickbed

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I crawled into a sickbed and was then wheeled to a hospital room where I would be waiting to take a few tests. It was quite embarrassing as I assessed my health condition to be stable. I was wasting the resource that could be useful and even crucial to genuine patients. A category I did not consider myself belonging to.

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A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

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Her heart was beating fast as she swiped the card. It was a considerable amount. The dark-blue velvet box was wrapped in carefully with silver gift paper. The movement of the fingers was flexible and gentle. The woman in the jewellery shop knew how to treat items of this kind.

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The cafe was closed

The cafe was closed, how could that happen? I had been longing to hide myself in the corner of that Baroque style sofa covered with velvet in purple. It was supposed to make me indulge in my thoughts, and feelings. The sort of feelings that are fading away and becoming distant. How could that happen, I thought I would never get rid of those feelings. Yet I never wished I would.

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