The most striking difference could be seen in the strokes. At one time, elegant unrestricted delineation of images in his head had opened him up. Those days were over, slain by the hand of sanity. Along with exoneration and balance, came the accidental portrayal of life through broader and more defined strokes. The activity came to a halt as it normally did when he felt an impulse to write his brother Theo.
Dear Thoedore,
Sweet brother, for so long you have been confident in me, never encroaching upon my capabilities. No other man or woman has ever befriended me that way. For this I am afraid, I owe a great debt of graciousness that can never be repaid…
The sun rested upon the shoulder of clouds and light settled gently on his room framing his talents. At once, a gradually deteriorating mind became filled with disgust. Shame and bitterness swelled inside him towards himself, his friends and his own innocent family. Only Theodore remained in his positive thoughts.
Even though my works have suffered as I sit and grow older, Doctor Gahmet is most apt and attentive to my needs. However, I fear that I can not be cured of my ailments. If perhaps I could be freed of the incessant ringing in my head, I would not be constantly reminded of my psychological mutations. Sometimes I feel as though a tragic transformation has changed me into a magnanimous monster…
There was a silver .45 magnum revolver tucked away discretely in the back of his closet. He found the box, hearing the roll of one single unused bullet as he lifted the case from its hideout. The gun had been in the family for generations, and he had been allowed to retain in possession. Of course, Gahmet had never been aware of the ominous ammo. He exhumed the convenient six-shooter from rest and headed for the door. Very slowly Vincent recalled the events that had taken place in his life, confirming his current intuition.
My vision of the future is egregious, far too grandiose to acknowledge as honest. God, if he is who father said he was, has dealt quite a certain destiny. The brush of paint is lost on itself, so Theo, I will step away.
There was a demon inside of him, clawing at his withering soul. The creature lived right beneath the troubled man’s heart that pumped his life with delusion. He had enough of the squirming and uneasiness, so he aimed and fired. The bullet was lodged and the gun dropped of its own weight to the damp ground. Panicking, he crawled for the inn. How painless it truly was, could he feel no regret?
…the loss of beauty through definition. To you my brother, a debt of gratitude.