Songbird - Write on Wednesday

I'm not gonna lie. I cheated this week -_-. This was actually written for a school assignment in May (tenth to be exact). Time doesn't seem to be hanging around much this week so this will have to do. The song is Starry Night by Don McLean (I like it better when Josh Groban sings it).

    A gust of wind carrying the heady perfume of honeysuckle rustled the pages of his book. Don was momentarily disrupted from his careful observation of Starry Night. He blinked a few times to bring himself back to reality. Inside, he was filled with inexplicable sadness at the life of the genius ignored. As Don thought about the people he loved, he marveled at the fortitude of the artist. He was sure he would have caved in earlier had he been in van Gogh's place.
    Examining the painting once more, Don realized the swirling hues common in Vincent's work had a story to tell. With a surge of inspiration and the urge to return something to the painter, Don reached for the notebook and guitar that were always within reach. He let the colors wash over his soul before beginning his task.
    The words began to flow from his pen to the paper, each one coming alive to express the beauty of the paintings and painter alike. Don reached into his innermost being as he tried to recreate van Gogh's masterpieces in human language, ever careful to let each piece speak for itself. The flowers, the seasons, and the people no one ever bothered to look at twice must have been precious to the artist or he would never have taken the time to paint them. If they were important enough to catch Vincent's eye, then they must be important to the song as well.
    The final words were written and Don began to coax a tune from his guitar, letting the music come to him as he had done with the story. The melody came out as sweet and passionate as the lyrics and paintings. The sound of the final composition drifted from the balcony down to the people passing by. Vincent's message was not lost.

To read Vincent van Gogh's (or what I imagine it to be) point of view go here.

This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you

-_-' Please ignore the silly look on Josh's face. This beautiful song is one that I can listen to over and over again. It got me interested in the work of Vincent Van Gogh, so when my English teacher assigned us a creative paper to write I naturally thought of him and his masterpiece Starry Night. The following is a fiction piece of what I imagine was going through his mind at the time he painted one of his most celebrated paintings. Note that I specifically mentioned it was fiction. This work is not entirely accurate historically.


    A soft breeze stirred the trees outside, but Vincent couldn't see it happen. The room he had been placed in had only a small window far above his head. Sometimes, he would stand on his bed and try to capture as much beauty as the view could afford but not tonight. Tonight felt urgent, as if the time he had on Earth was coming to an end. He had an important task to finish. Vincent paused to examine the work in progress. In his mind he could still clearly see that starry night long ago. He closed his eyes to drink the memory in completely.
   
    It was a summer night, and although Vincent could have gone on painting forever, the beauty beyond his window beckoned. As he walked, he smiled to himself. The town was perfect. Already he had painted the various people he had observed carrying out their daily tasks.
    The path he was on led to the woods, but Vincent stopped at the top of a hill situated on the outskirts of town. His painter's eyes took in the scenery, starting with the glittering stars. They looked  as if someone had meticulously glued each sparkle onto the midnight garment of the heavens. Slowly, his eyes wandered towards the simple town below him. The lights in the windows cheerfully battled the darkenss surrounding them. He smiled again. Truly, the town was perfect.

    Vincent forced himself out of his reverie. He had been happy then, but the image before him reflected none of that. Instead, all of his pain was evident. The turmoil in his soul was clearly seen in the ominous swirling of the starry sky. Vincent painted faster and faster. Perhaps the despair would find relief once it was all on the canvas. When the time came, the painting would serve as a parting gift to his only comfort, Theo.
    As the final star was painted, Vincent dared to breathe. The time was coming, and he knew what he had to do. Theo would understand. Surely to die for love was a good way to exit this cruel world.