What mares did you see, your mind all at sea, the girl with van gogh eyes?
What smiles you give, what lives do you live, with no lies to give - the girl with Van Gogh eyes?
The mud in your toes, the potions you brew, the singing of her voice, the girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your dark pool windows cast bright light and dark shadows, oh how they spark me, the girl with Van Gogh eyes.
Dark voids I  fall into, portal or eternal loss, girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your pale moon skin, troubadour clothes, firm curved within, girl with Van Gogh eyes
cartwheels in the grass, you fiddle away in a beautiful way,  girl with Van Gogh eyes
Starry nights twirl, earth flower I unfurl in avarice and in care, girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your butterfly child helped temper my sin, the girl with Van Gogh eyes
It lies within, curves womanly my chagrin, oh girl with van Gogh eyes

Suicidal tendencies are condemned infinity worth of light years in insanity, but the bloodlust shown in children's palm imprints on stale walls after every Adha Eid is righteousness: sanity in all its glory.

Flashbacks in action:
1-It's sunny, it's 3 pm, July 1st 1750, a man murders another. The first is a landowner, the latter is a slave who tried to stop his master from ****** his wife, the woman is also one of his master's slaves and that reads: he owns her womb. It's starry, it's 10 pm, July 1st 1750, two slaves discuss the the incident that occurred earlier in agonized whispers, one of them says "he declared his head ripen and ready for plucking when he tried to say no", the other replies "he must have been insane".
2-It's  raining, it's 8 pm, January 1st 1950, a man kisses another. The first is the second's lover, they meet in secrecy twice a week in an abandoned meadow, their footsteps echo the two aforementioned slaves' whispers. It's raining, it's 8:05 pm, January 1st 1950, a third man announces his presence by stepping out of a nearby bush, a step so loud it could be confused for thunder in such a weather, "I only followed you here because you're my friend, and It's because I'm your friend that I will tell you this" he tells his fellow scholar "I won't tell on you if you try to seek help, we now have treatment for homosexuality, you don't have to spend the rest of your life mentally ill".

Only those who show no sign of imprisonment in their desire to be a continuous flow of living generations further are mentally ill. Those who rob others' time,  space, and energy are only trying to live. We feast on mountains, sunlight, water, plants, and other animals. We claim consciousness as our bride. We claim reign as our fate. We claim superiority. Cannons as either angry battle cries or smiles fired in the face of any other, cannibalism shows as we shake hands. We're constantly on the hunt, as both preys and hunters. But that's the way life goes isn't it? Tigers hunt ghazals, ghazals hunt grass, and earth hunts us all the moment we fall or die. We even have a name for this hierarchy of sacred hunting: the life cycle. Such an inappropriate name for a process fueled on constant deaths.

But this juxtaposition is the ultimate definition of all there is. We have also been throughout time told by doctors, by the ever changing science, that in order to be the most active during the day, we need to sleep well during the night; to get eight hours of oceans-deep sleep every time sixteen hours pass on. We say pass on to mean die but the same two syllables have two more meanings; all hail semiotics. To pass on means to die, to give, and to evolve. this I was taught by my mother, and although I don't trust her judgment when it comes to people she remains an exquisite cook, and an exquisite writer. She distinguishes the different spices and synonymous on first sniffs and I will always be grateful for her trial to pass on her nose, high and proud, to me.

Van Gogh passed on his seven sunflowers and twirl-spiral Suns to the humanity whose tongue doesn't always speak in haikus. Van Gogh's second sunflowers burned in Hiroshima. Van Gogh had been rumored to eat yellow paint: as yellow as his sunflowers and twirl spiral Suns, because he couldn't eat the yellow land, the yellow skin, the yellow Japanese utopia. Van Gogh believed that there is a Japanese utopia, Van Gogh believed in the existence of a utopia, Van Gogh believed in the no place, Van Gogh passed his no place on to this humanity.

I inherited paintings in public museums, and paintings on tree leafs. I inherited orchestras in far away operas through the Interwebs, and I inherited movies and dances and all the beauty that this humanity managed to produce. I inherited life, and its deaths, and I can see how in the very root of its injustice there is also grace growing, that clean sheets are not the warmest. I inherited mental illness, and I inherited stale stability. I inherited love, love, and more love. I inherited preys and hunters and I inherited the ability to see the beauty of the accuracy, the run, and the play on capabilities. I  inherited prey and hunters and I inherited the ability to see how preys are hunters and how hunters are preys.

In a spur of curiosity, I read about Vincent Van Gogh
His life, death, and all that lay between
And in stumbling upon the knowledge of my sudden interest
I see that his last words were,

"This sadness will last forever."

The ache of them resonates all too well and
an overwhelming sensation of familiarity fills the cavity of my chest

I think about all the things that could of been said and
decide none of them would probably be sufficient to save him
But I still mourn the unspoken

If only I had the chance to tell him
No, it won't

If only I knew him to say
No, it doesn't

This sadness is not permanent, I promise
Yes it remains,
Yes it is still there always, living comfortably in the shadows of our figures
But you learn to see past it
I wish I could tell him that permanence does not exist
That it is an idea man-made
And we are simply living for today

It's funny, how someone who created so much beauty could not find any in himself
In painting a future, ending seemed more promising than hope
So in that wheat field his chest kissed the bullet of a relvover
And he walked patiently towards death

Van Gogh,
Didn't anybody tell you it gets better?
Didn't anyone say that even if it doesn't, you can?

Van Gogh,
Don't you know that nothing lasts forever?
That we are merely existing to make it to tomorrow?

Vincent,
I know this world can be cruel
I know that eventually flowers turn to dust and the sky turns black at dusk but even you could see stars in darkness
You made an entire galaxy out of the night and we are still finding ways to admire its beauty

Vincent,
I know the sun can be harsh some days
I know the air can be too cold for motivation on others
I know sometimes getting out of bed can be a battle with yourself, seeming impossible
I know how it feels to be heavy with the weight of too much
And I am sorry that you couldn't bare it all

But this sadness wasn't made to last forever
Flowers will regrow and bloom again even brighter than before
The moon still shines against a dim canvas
Winter is only temporary and the gloom will pass when the seasons change
Before you know it spring will be here

I wish you could have stayed to see it come,
It is the only certainty in this eternity.