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ONE MIGHT THEORIZE AS TO HOW A MAN WHO’S YOUTH WAS SELF-DESCRIBED AS “GLOOMY AND COLD AND STERILE” CAME TO CREATE SUCH VIVID CREATIONS IN THE LATTER YEARS OF HIS LIFE.MANY SCHOLARS AND HISTORIANS LOOK UPONVANGOGH’S MENTAL ILLNESS AS THE CATALYST TO MOMENTS OF GENIUS IN HIS WORKS, BUT IT COULD BE ARGUED THAT ANY PERSON FACED WITH UNREQUITED LOVE COULD SUCCUMB TO MADNESS.
LOVE IS A DRIVING FORCE FOR A PERSON’S DECISIONS, MOTIVES, AND PURPOSE IN LIFE, AS IS EVIDENCED BY MANY STORIES TOLD THROUGHOUT HISTORY.IT HAS CAUSED HAPPINESS, JOY, WAR, AND DECEIT.WITHOUT LOVE, ONE CANNOT FUNCTION AND THRIVE AMONG THEIR PEERS OR HUMANITY AS A WHOLE.ITS ABSENCE CAN CAUSE IRREPARABLE HARM TO THOUGHT PROCESSES AND LOGIC—OR INVANGOGH’S CASE, MAKE ONE CRAZED.
THOSE WHO CANNOT SURVIVE IN THE WORLD DUE TO THE LACK OF THE INHERENT HUMAN NEED FOR LOVE SEARCH FOR ANOTHER PLACE TO RESIDE.VANGOGH CREATED A SAFE SPACE TO ROAM WITHIN HIS IMAGINATIONS AND BROUGHT THOSE THOUGHTS TO LIFE THROUGH GRAPHITE AND PAINTS.HE DEVISED A PLACE WHERE HE COULD BE LOVED AND ACCEPTED FOR WHO HE TRULY WAS, CREATING HIS OWN KINGDOM OF FREEDOM.THIS ACT MIGHT BE CONSIDERED MADNESS, BUT IF THIS WERE TRUE, THEN ALL DAYDREAMERS EXHIBIT SOME BRAND OF PSYCHOSIS.
I pause my fingers on the keyboard, reading over the last sentence written for my thesis.
I sigh.
It’s evident that my focus is overwhelmed by the recent events in my own life. While much of what I’ve written about Van Gogh’s lifetime is true, there are assumptions being made that have been heavily influenced by my own story, and it’s difficult to distinguish the line between his experiences and my own.
Maybe this isn’t the right time to be working on my paper.
I save the document, close my laptop, and then shimmy it into the bag at my feet while manning the front desk of the engineering library. There are still a few weeks left in the quarter, and most of my paper has already been completed. It’s probably a good idea to finish it when I’m in a better state of mind.
It’s been a few days since Foster and I discussed the status of what we are now—friends without benefits. The sudden shift in our relationship was difficult to accept at first, but I’ve come to terms with the reality of our situation, finally coming down from the dreamlike world I was unknowingly building in my mind.
What else can I do?
I value his friendship too much and agree that ending our arrangement is for the best. There’s no reason to muddy the waters between us even though my heart has already been taken to sea, looking for his. It’s time to reel my emotions back to the safety of where they once resided.
It’s currently the middle of my shift, and we’re experiencing a major lull in activity at the library—so much so, that Foster excused himself to get a coffee more than twenty minutes ago, which was out of character. In all the time that we’ve worked together, I’ve never known him to be the java-indulging type, so I was a little caught off guard when he announced that he was heading out to get a cup after spending the previous forty minutes silently texting on his phone.
Communication between us during the first hour of working together had been slightly strained, but no more than had been expected. With our new arrangement, it’s almost like we are starting over in some ways, and I find myself at a loss of how to act or what to say. I’ve been keeping quiet for the most part.
Since I’m unable to focus on my thesis, I lean back in my seat and peruse the Internet on my phone. I read an article about a koala stealing and driving a woman’s car off her property, flip through images of celebrities at a recent red carpet event, and then take a test to see how bitchy I am. Apparently, I’m only twenty-nine percent bitchy. That result would be a shock to all of humankind.
As I’m about to click on another test to see what celebrity is my soul mate, Foster pauses just outside the glass entrance to the library, talking on his phone. In the unstealthiest manner possible, I stare at him as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and then he paces in a five-foot circle. Eventually, he stops in his tracks and makes eye contact with me through the clear divide. Caught in the act of gawking, I quickly shift back to my phone, moving my fingers along the screen.
A few moments later, Foster enters the library. He pulls out his chair, takes a seat, and then places a small white paper cup in front of my monitor.
“What’s this?” I ask, referring to the unexpected treat.
“I brought you a hot cocoa with extra whipped cream.”
But nothing for himself?
“Thanks,” I say.
“If you don’t want it, no worries. I should have asked before I left. I wasn’t sure if you’d want coffee this late at night.”
“No, this is great,” I say, dropping the phone in my lap. I place my hands around the cup, flooding my skin with its heat. “I don’t think I’ve had hot chocolate since I was about twelve. Is there a cherry on top, too?”
“Did you want a cherry?”
“I think my cherry days are more than long gone.”
“I can easily attest to that.”
His quick comeback surprises me.
A rising boil of emotions floods my veins, despite the imaginary wall drawn between us. My muscles release, deflating the small amount of tension I didn’t realize they were grasping on to.
His smile widens, accentuating those adorable cheekbones.
I smile, too.I can’t help it.
We smile together.
