"I would rather die of passion than of boredom"
[Vincent van Gogh]

Incapable Passion (My Fathers Son)

Incapable Passion (My Fathers Son)


“I would rather die of passion than of boredom.”
— [Vincent van Gogh]

It’s my favourite quote. ‘Passion’, the essence of life itself, and ‘Boredom’, the universal fear of mankind. And Vincent. His life and his mistakes. His brilliance and his madness. It’s all spellbinding to me.

I hate being bored and I hate myself for being boring. I look at myself and all I see is a show on repeat. Same story, different scenes. Same escape, different exits.

But if I follow the stairs down to my deepest dungeons. If I peel off all the armour. If I unwrap myself, naked an vulnerable, passion is all that remains. 

But it scares me, so I shut down by wasting my time with trivial things. Instead of feeling liberated, I feel locked up. Instead of feeling blessed, I feel cursed. My maze of thoughts and ideas builds gravity, pulling me down, holding me, paralysed and heavy.

Like the weight of God’s hand has fallen upon me, a force out of my control, provoking me to fight back. Pushing me to react. But all I feel is its grip around my legs, my back and my shoulders. Squeezing the air out of my lungs, while my head crumbles and my eyes stare into nothing. 

There’s a voice in my head. Talking its way through both days and nights, while I’m taking notes. I’m trying to keep up, but I am incapable. Incapable of nurturing my own monster. Incapable of dancing with my passion. 

I hear it singing great songs and wonderful melodies, I see the band play and the crowd cheer, but in my notes there’s just a flat, bleak, shadow of an idea.

It gives me words. Floating down on a page like a never ending river. But when I try to catch up, my fingers stumble and I no longer remember what it said. I pick up fragments, convincing myself that my memory works as an unforgiving, but necessary editor. But deep down I know that something that once was, can never be.

And it shows me split seconds of life as God made it. Marvellous images flickering rapidly like scenes outside the window of a runaway train. Life, built by the light of the sun and the shadows of its creations. Those magic eyes, that certain look, her prefect skin and the insight of her mystery. Any lens would do if held up in that right moment. But I’m never on time. Always too late.

All those never ending thoughts and feelings, those mind wondering hours, those bright moments, they hit me like a majestic flood wave. Like an ocean coming in at full blast. It’s everything and nothing all at once.

It carries an unbearable noice which leaves me numb. It leaves me quiet, closing my door, trying to preserve the safety of silence. 

It’s too much. Too wide.

I am my fathers son, because just like him, I’m desperately holding on to the artist I want to be, instead of being the man I am. It’s a route I know and it’s boredom in disguise. And it is a heavy cross to carry. Those nails hurt. Because I have met my father. Nobody wants to be like him. I would rather die of passion.

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