Vincent's Mind

For the More Than This Competition. Vincent Van Gogh's life is so unbearable that unknowingly he created a world that is entirely his own. He doesn't know what is real and what is not. Constantly he asks himself if there is more to his life than this. He has to cope with Manic Depression through his life in the 19th Century which ulimatley stops him from seeing life for what what it really is. He stumbles through the world making mistakes which aren't really his fault, but he thrives through the madness and produces the best artwork our world has seen to date. Guaranteed to change your view on the greatest artist known to man.


3. July 1879

A tall thin man sat on the filth ridden blanket, staring emptily into the golden rising sun. His hair matched the colours of the sun-rise, but his expression wasn’t one you’d expect from one watching something so beautiful. Next to him was a pallet of dull toned paints, and a couple of discarded canvases. Nearest to him was a still wet painting of some of the people around him. He liked to paint. It made him feel free, and he could express his emotions in ways words just couldn’t cover. He found peasants fascinating; they had such hard lives yet didn’t crumble.


 Scurrying on the ash pavement, rats scavenged for rotten meat. They sniffed at each wheezing snoring blanket; inspecting it for food. There was no point; the people around there were so thin that not even rats would bother with them.


Thinking is dangerous, but Vincent sat thinking nether-the-less. Had he already lived his utopian dream, and was he now doomed to this? He thought at 16 he had reached something more, yet he seemed to have gone backwards in that process. But he was in the peasant world for a purpose. He wanted to help. If he couldn’t help himself, then he thought God would want to him to help others. He felt somehow he was on a path to finding himself.


After a while, mouldy blankets began to move and dishevelled faces peeped out at the golden world. Time to get to work. He had spent all night collecting berries, and held them in a basket. In his other hand he held his gold rimmed Bible. Forcing a smile on his face, he weaved his way through the broken people and handed out breakfast; giving a small helping hand. Sewn on frowns gradually became unstitched and upturned to speak words of gratitude, and even though Vincent had been there for a while, he had never got used to how grateful these people had been. He learned a lot from them.


Setting out on his usual route preaching words of comfort and hope, he was met with love through the poverty. Small weary children skipped beside him, not for the food but for the feeling. Pacing through street after street of sickness he did all he could, waving to newly found friends and warm hearted beggars. That morning he saw a man dressed in spotless patronising robes with a golden rimmed scarf. Another trained Priest. Their eyes met and Vincent was looked down upon in pity and disgust. His way of preaching was not appreciated by many. Yet Vincent felt pity for the Priest because through his armour he was nothing more than a scared fool, who was too snobby to really help people for the better; no, he was just a public figure of God.


Vincent sighed. This was what the world was coming too. Nothing more.


By the time he reached the river, it was already jammed with withering people. Hundreds of greasy naked bodies sluggishly washed in the water; aggressively scrubbing and scrubbing away at themselves with their grime swollen fingers. Disturbingly thin torsos still frightened Vincent, but nobody took any notice. He saw people picking fleas from each other’s hair whilst others stupidly urinated in the water with no dignity and no care for others. Screaming babies were dunked delicately in the rapid waves and although it made no difference mothers could be seen desperately sponging at stains from the past. Nobody could hear themselves think, just a whirl of harrowing noise. Vincent would wash later.


Making his way back to his blanket alone, he could let his mask drop. His mouth drooped into a saddening scowl and his eyes started to sting. And that’s when he heard it. An agonizing wail. Vincent was shook to his senses, and he heard it again. Where was it coming from? Frantically running about like a madman, by chance he got nearer and soon it was so close that it shook his very soul.


A plastic curtain was all that was stopping Vincent now. A tiny shelter trapped this person. Vincent hesitated for a moment. He had no idea what he might see; he might not be able to cope. But Vincent was better than he used to be. He wouldn’t run again. Bracing himself, he stepped inside.


In the centre of the room was a pile of crimson blankets and on them a child. Vincent barely noticed the child’s father wailing beside him because what he saw next was more than enough to distract. On the little boys chest was a large gaping wound that blood was erupting out of, and on his forehead was deep gash which rapidly flowed a stream of scarlet liquid down his face. But that wasn’t the worse. The child’s stomach was no more; a huge empty hole was all that remained. No organs were in sight and now Vincent noticed that the boy was in fact dead. Well of course he was.


It looked like somebody had torn him apart and ate him. Realization hit Vincent and he knew that’s what must have happened. Before he knew it his eyes started gushing tears and he sat next to the boy’s father weeping. He had no idea how long they both sat there, but he must have fallen asleep as he was shaken awake. Opening his bleeding eyes the first thing he noticed was that the boy had gone because in his place was a puddle of blood.


Sat before him was his father. He didn’t even have the strength to ask what he was doing there, because he started to uncontrollably sob, curling up in a ball. He couldn’t believe that someone could eat a child, and didn’t see any point in living anymore. This world was horrible, and it frightened him so badly. People now petrified him. He wanted to die because feeling nothing would be better than feeling what he did. No way did God exist anymore. He wouldn’t allow the world to come to this if he did. Or he gave up on us, and left us all to die.


For his father was a strong man, Vincent was picked up and taken all the way home.

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