A Letter Yet Sent

Dear Beth,

“A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.”
― Vincent Van Gogh

            It is only fitting that I start at least one of my letters with the words of Vincent Van Gogh. I do after all find a kindred spirit with the man. I’m not sure why I find myself reading his letters over and over thinking they are written to me, and me alone. Or why I get lost in his paintings finding an understanding I can share with him. It is not normal for me to believe I share emotions or dreams with a man long dead. Dead to the point where his bones are now rotten in the ground, and the only thing we have of him are letters and paintings. I’m sure there is a lot of project on my end of this so-called relationship with the dead, but never-the-less, a quote is needed by him.

            The joke is not lost on me that there is a good chance I can end up like the mad artist in his blue wool coat. There only times someone will no my name is after it is written on the gravestone and some foolish artist years after my death will be writing a letter to a friend talking about how they share a kindred soul with me.

            The joke is, or I suppose the punchline would be if I meet that wide eye artist, I would dislike him or her. There a good chance Vincent and I would not get along, and I would care not to know the real man who wrote the letters I so love. I guess the old adage ever meet you heroes would hold true in my case as much as anyone else. But I have found a way around the adage only have heroes that are dead and then you never have to meet them.

            Simple right?

            I sure hope so.

            Beth, I write to you without the knowledge of a letter from you sitting in my mailbox at the moment. It could be there. It might be there, but I have failed to check it and have lost the key to doing so. Maybe, it is the cold or the boredom, but I felt no great need to go outside.

            I am so very bored right now, and I’m not sure why. I do not like the feeling, but I also know it is a needed state of mind. You see, and maybe you know, but being bored is great for any kind of artists. The moments of low when life is pulling to a crawl is the very moment, we as artists come up with our greatest ideas.

            I understand the boredom is something that I need to welcome and I’m trying to do it this very night.

            What happens when you are not bored with your stories but instead, your life overall? I could do what Van Gogh did, pack up, head south alone and lonely to paint and write. I could live like a monk with my books, my paints, and wine. It almost sounds welcoming. A dream of a life anyone would love to have until the nights grew cold and the loneliness became the enemy rather than a friend.

             I guess, the real question, the one beckoning at my fingers tips is … what’s the difference between the dream above and my life now? Well, I didn’t go south but north, outside of that little detail, nothing. To some degree, I am living the life I want. I work for my food, buy my books, and by my overwhelming joy write every day of my life. Sure, my writing only brings me joy, and I pour far too much time into it with no pay off outside of my enjoyment, but writing is my haven from life.

            One day, I hope and pray, I can make money at it, but even if I don’t, I’ll write until I die, just like Van Gogh painted, and after my death, you can come in, gather all my work, and make your millions. I won’t mind if that was the case when it came to my work. As long as someone gets to read my writing, see my worlds, then I would have lived a good life.

            Maybe, I have placed the bar too low, but I’ve had too many failures in my life to aim too high. It doesn’t bother me much anymore, the failures. I still have plans and dreams and failing is something I have done since I could remember. Funny, I can recall the first F I ever got in school. It was on a spelling test. The F didn’t mean much to me then it still doesn’t, now.

            Failures, after all, is the greatest teachers in life, so the wise men said.

            I was walking up the steps to my door last night, no, it was night but, in the morning, right before the sun was due to come up. The light of the star hung on the edge of the world debating rather or not to go back to bed, it was a bloody cold morning. And as I passed all the sleepy door with the souls on the other side about the be screamed awake by clocks and chimes, I wondered how many of them were failures? Do you wonder as you read this letter with my bad handwriting on the other side of the country if those people we do not know wake up staring up at the black ceiling wishing their lives were something different?

            Do you think the woman with the two kids who live on the second floor, wanted something different in her life?

            Or the old black man who saw war one day wished he was young again and didn’t break his hands at fighting?

            Do you think they smile at their lives?

            I hope they do, somehow, even if it is finding the small joys in it. I stood at the door for a moment wondering as I saw the sun get up for his duty, what forgotten dreams did I have? When I was a child what was a dream, I wanted for my life that has faded with time? I don’t think I have one. I have always wanted to be an artist, and I can say with the first rays of light for the day my dreams have come true. I am an artist. I am a writer who gets to write daily. I walked into my room, crawled into bed with a smile on my face, thanking God for my life, and right before sleep took me, I understood why Van Gogh gave his life to his art, there is no greater joy.

With a handshake,

Chase