van gogh was so infatuated with the idea of being happy, he ate yellow paint in hopes of it making him more joyful on the inside. to him, the toxicity of the fluid he had digested did not compare to the toll depression had on his mental health. this isn’t much different from alcoholism or drug abuse.
see, we often confuse our temporary thrills for happiness and end up broken in the end.


you were my yellow paint, until you were the poems i wrote at midnight.
you were the sun shine & blue skies, until
you were the rain that poured from my eyes.
now, you’re just the water i drowned in and the fire that confused my lungs for wood.
-a.d
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