Brooding my timeframe disallowance. To achieve back into the un-renunciation salvage of life. The darkness progenitor once began here. Distance so far away from the Northern Frisian platform where Van Gogh began his restless formation of a continued religious life. Where he was earnestly captivated into the quadrant threshold of his life less ordinary pattern denigrated by the dead-life of his executed brother. Whisked away by the family, swarming his discharge from his contemplative life. Eons ago, on the vacated island finger where captivated coal servants planted wistfully in a recreation of minor hedge bets, detracting away from the surface of the land.

Never meaning, never seeing. Never anything but a detracted fish hook from all these miss the breath moments. The family jewels had emaciated him. The distant religious dogmatic father had senselessly forgotten him. And he wrapped up in a destituted lover’s gravity. Finding his way simply because the form of a chronic disillusion into the highbrid demarcation of a distant, wayward child, now a young woman. The lustful disparagement wrestled him away.

The manic depression new limit indifference drove him away from his bureaucratic detention to a dogmatic Christian faith. Wrestled by his needless indifference to his unsettled perception of a migrant family circle, he admonished the dark side of life. Not knowing or seeing, how close he was to the dark side of life, he began to drag away filter. Not for a moment anything more than restlessly insufficient. Not knowing who he thought and wanted to be. He disclosed his drift to his younger brother, an art curator in Paris, where he met other newly invigorated insider artistic dream quotient new rivals and beginning lovers. It was here where he evolved his darkness painting into a lighter brush. And eventually re-liberated himself to Arles, much lighter and brighter than the North Frisian finger island.

Here in Arles he began to weave and weep into his manic depression. Yet illuminating all of the Manichean fables deep inside and within. The Roman ruins were a measure of honest faith for him. Targeting all of the sarcastic flood with his inner strength of new fundamental realization. Of new and deep productive insight of how this life cycle can allow you to breed and breath and bleed. Back and forth with his manic depression. In within, and out without. Painting all of the natural and materialistic surroundings into deep inner universal subconscious redirection of the soft subtle mind. He painted a replication of the board inner perception of all that surrounded him. To share with those who lack insight what they could truly see if they allowed themselves to deviate inertia into the magnetism plateau without gracelessness. And sharing all of this, he slowly, mechanically, drifted away from any conscious breath, wrapped up and down with manic depression that drew and sucked him away from any possibility to ever be part of the earth again.

A knife to his ear here in Arles. A bullet to his head back to the north of Paris. But before that he saw anything. One to become. Always to subjecting dream it out without the satisfied baseline into the heart. A true disciple of the next life. Adherence to the truth. A drift and shift away from melancholic blues. Only to return, and nestle the life with greatness. A new and final catastrophic flood.