My favorite painter is Vincent Van Gogh. He has always fascinated me. Although, I’ve always loved realism as a form of art – his work has always called out to me. His works have this sense of urgency. You could imagine him slapping colors straight from the tube, trying to fight his demons. Every color has its meaning. Every coarse stroke reveals his inner struggle. There is no other painter like him. And that is why I’ve always loved him.
But then again, I’ve always been a sucker for anything sad. And this is probably why I also love Pablo Neruda’s work. Have you read his poems? I have. I devoured them. Some, I’ve memorized. His words are passionate, unapologetic, coarse. He plays with words masterfully. His imagery is sad but beautiful.
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m a bit melancholic tonight. Oh, well. I should just hit the sack. It’s 11 already.
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