The sunflowers swayed violently creating a nauseating effect, as hundreds of yellow-embroidered heads moved in accordance to the passing of the wind. Vincent swept callused hands through the sunflowers, feeling sticky pollen cling to the crevasses within his gnarled fingers, the colour blooming against his sallow skin. The wind whistled through the surrounding cedar trees, as Vincent orchestrated a silent melody of colours.
An odd sense of foreboding permeated the sunny atmosphere, as Vincent stood alone in the field. On-lookers would have later say that he looked like a tortured spirit, arms held wide to the sun as if seeking solace.
Vincent gingerly held the petals of a sunflower between his fingers, and then with a sudden burst of anger, savagely ripped the petals off the flower head, leaving it bare and desolate. He fell to his knees, feeling the hard texture of the dirt pierce through his trouser pants, and gripped his head with his hands. Tears rolled off his face into the cracks within the earth. He looked at the sky and stood, feeling a bitter loneliness accentuate his feelings of dissimilarity from society. With the cold gun in his hand, he attempted to gain admittance to the land that cannot be accessed by the living.
A sound like lightning echoed through the sunflower fields, as the wide-eyed painter bled crimson around a narrow pit in his stomach, dripping amongst the yellow blooms of the sunflowers. Vincent fell unconscious, shielded by the sunflowers from the curious view of the sun.
***************************************************************************Question:
Is rebirth a possibility? Can the desires and expectations of individuals be transferred from one life to the next? Or is it mere coincidence?
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The gun was cold on the side of Lewis’ face, pressing harshly into his skin. He stared at the scene before him through a filter of tears that glazed the landscape, creating the illusion that the world was disorganized and blended together, despite having lines and edges.
To commit suicide required bravery he considered, a lone figure within the field. One had to be aware of the ramifications of such an action and the social consequences that came with it, people shaking their heads and recounting how selfish he had been. Though, once the fear of the ambiguity of death had diffused from his mind, it no longer seemed like a repulsive action, but an artistic revolution. To conquer himself and to create a masterpiece, using his blood and organs as items to paint and sculpt.
Though his musings were interrupted by the ground, as it began to shift under his feet, and the world became thick paint, rolling over his body like waves. As it began to fill up his mouth and nose, he heard a mixture of screams and music, whilst his heart began preparing to stop.
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Lewis had a vague memory of falling as he found himself surrounded by white fog, looking at a revolving world. “Complexity is an excuse for inaction.” Lewis looked at the spinning world around him, trying to locate the voice, a nauseating image of the spinning hands of a clock, and numbers constantly changing. “Every human being experiences three stages throughout their life,” said the voice, emanating somewhere from the ceiling. “The first being rejection, followed by acceptance, and then finished by exploration of one’s own nature,” continued the dulcet tones, which began to be overpowered by the loud and ominous ticking of the clock. “Wake up,” a childlike voice interrupted, distracting Lewis from the chaos of the spinning clock,” wake up Lewis.”
) going to kill himself. This is a lovely.
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