Here I am, in the middle of this superfluous wheat field, no walls, no isolated corners, no stern nurses, no weeping visitors, no tormented patients, just me, the fresh air, and you, my beautiful canvas. Oh, and those voices too.
You have always been by me when my best muse, someone who I inferred to be my soulmate refused to save me from those four walls, when my brother saw in my eyes the yearning for liberty and inspiration yet left me for those vicious doctors or when my very own audience petitioned to send me to the asylum when I thought I conveyed my sorrow to them through you, dear canvas.
As I lay under the dusky sky, my solitude is growing while it turns darker, the wind is quietly blowing the wheat towards the West but they don’t mind. I wish to be like a wheat grass, golden, surrounded by a million like me, no roof whatsoever, and no dreading the end. Or maybe my content lies after the end, towards the sunset. Maybe this red path would lead me to my heaven where the angels would keep me accompanied, the gardens would keep me occupied, and where the melodious hymns would overpower these voices. Maybe that is where the crows are flying to, cawing all the way. But why aren’t their ugly caws louder than these voices? Why do I hear these voices over even the sounds of the loudest bells and gongs? Why did these voices get louder after I cut my ear off? What sound will be louder than these voices?
“A gunshot”, replied the voices.
Wheatfield with crows by Vincent van Gogh