Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he believed it would get happiness inside of him. Many thought that it was the incredibly toxic lead-based paint that made him turn mad. Nevermind that eating yellow paint had absolutely no correlation with happiness, but I don’t see it that way. If you were so profoundly unhappy that maybe even the sickest ideas, like painting your GI tract yellow, could possibly work, then you will do if. I equate it to falling in love or using drugs. You increase the risk of becoming heartbroken or overdosing, but people still do these things because they are willing to take that chance. They’re maybe willing to believe that perhaps their circumstances will change by doing so. Everyone has yellow paint.
At some point, I’ll get there. One day, I will be totally cool with the whole “race” thing and the whole “bisexual” thing. The anger will subside, and I will learn to love again. It’s not that I have problems with my own ethnicity and sexuality. Rather, it’s that I have problems with the way my ethnicity/sexuality is used as a way into me and the preconceived ideas about who I am.
Stopping by Carrier on a Snowy Evening
(amended from Robert Frost)
Whose library is this I think I know.
Their house is in the Village though;
They will not see me stopping here
To watch their park fill up with snow.
My tired mind must think it weird
To stop without one final cleared
Between the books and laptop screens
The darkest evening of the year.
It gives a throb, a caffeinated ache
Signaling there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
And Carrier is lovely, dark and deep.
But I have exams over which to weep,
And pages to write before I sleep,
And pages to write before I sleep