If you say that the painting is a dumb poem, then the painter will say that the poem is a blind man's painting. - Wedges

"These lights aren't for us, I don't want to live here." The lady said in a choked voice, apparently unable to accept reality.

"How can this be reasonable, who dares to **** and trample on the law, I want to accuse him." The thin man who was sticking to Bundy suddenly burst into rage, his voice several decibels.

"You save it, it's better to find out why we came to this mental hospital now." The man in the suit said pertinently.

"I don't want to stay in this place for a second, I want to get out."

"If you let me know who the director of this hospital is? I'm going to tear him down. ”

"Today my daughter is waiting for me to come home for her birthday, and I want to go home."

"How long am I going to stay in this place, I'm not going to live."

......

Complaining and unwilling to be in full swing, only I was silent, calmly thinking about my situation and the reason for coming here.

My heart chuckled, since I fell here, the most important thing is to have the faith and certainty to live, rather than blindly crying and despairing. I plucked up the courage to confide in me without shying away from confiding in my thoughts: "Well, everyone, since we have been locked up as mentally ill, then there is a basis for being mentally ill, and you don't admit that you are sick, and I don't admit it, but we have to be clear, what did we go through before we came here?"

......

Time fell silent, and the drizzling raindrops paused its rage.

It was in that silence that I began to reminisce about my past: I was a lonely painter, searching for my soul in solitude but not being able to find it, and finding a destination for love in wandering and wandering without end. During the day, I worked hard to paint in a bachelor apartment; In the evenings, I choose to work until dawn in the garment production line to support my family. I'm not the famous Vincent. Van Gogh, without his expressionist mind, would not have been able to paint that incomparable artistic treasure, but his production and madness were the same as his. And for these unfortunate geniuses, I think their greatest misfortune is not that no one understands, just like me, but without the warm baptism of the world, when they are alive, they become lonely souls abandoned by the crowd. Spiritual loneliness can be filled with a love of art, but it cannot fill the inner desire for love.

I don't like to be pretending to be deep when I paint, blindly creating a lot of ideas to mislead others, everyone has their own unique life, and my greatest pleasure is to express myself as authentically as possible.

I don't think that art is a profession for a few people, like an arched relic, it should be popular and extensive, and it should reflect people's inner world. Because life itself is art, and all people are running for life, struggling, and participating in life, everyone is an artist and can create miracles.

My life, like all people, is full of hard struggles, sincere yearnings, unspeakable pleasures, and of course, a lot of worries and worries, and life itself is such a multi-element complex, so I really hope that my works can provide people with a broader space and make people get new pleasures.

I can't figure out how I got to the mental hospital, as if my memory was blank, as if everything that happened when I woke up from a dream was no longer repeated, and my memory was in chaos.

Observe the reactions of other people, one by one:

The tall burly man said unceremoniously: "I remember that I was driving in a car accident and woke up to this ghost place, which was strange." ”

"I'm a doctor, I took the elevator home after work, and suddenly, the lights in the elevator dimmed, and my mind blurred, so I came here by mistake." The doctor's eyes were rolling and tears were glistening with eyes.

"I was teaching about the rise of the literary movement and humanism when there was a sudden bang and a blackboard fell over my head, and I lost consciousness. The old man's voice seemed to represent that he was an old man over the age of six, and it was clear that he was a history teacher.

"If the psychiatric hospital dares to detain us without reason, I can sue him and ask the hospital to pay for mental damages." Obviously, from the tone of voice, this is the professional language of lawyers.

Everyone present was flustered, looking at each other with fearful eyes, as if the sickle of death was about to descend on them and take fate by the throat.

"You're a classic traumatic stress disorder, and we should keep our composure." The young lady woke up like a dream and looked at everyone with eager eyes.

For some reason, as a painter, I suddenly remembered the bumpy road I had had.

As Van Gogh said, "When I paint a sun, I want people to feel that it is spinning at an astonishing speed and is emitting terrifying waves of light and heat; When I paint a field of wheat, I want people to feel the wheat arguing over their final ripening and blooming efforts; When I draw an apple tree, I want people to feel that the juice inside the apple is stretching the peel open, and the seeds in the kernel are striving to bear fruit. When I draw a man, I have to draw his life. If there is no longer something infinite, profound, real in my life, I will no longer be attached to the world.

Van Gogh was a great painter, and that's nothing compared to me. He may have been a painter who focused on expressionism, but if it weren't for the inspiration that inspired him to paint, he might have just died silently in a madman in a wheat field. And I, facing the mental hospital around me, didn't even think that there was a trace of motivation to create, but instead there was endless fear and fear.

It was tightly closed, with only a fan hanging from the ceiling, and it seemed that only a few clues could be found in the dilapidated room.

"Let's see how it goes inside and see if we can get out?" I proposed.

At this time, everyone was like a puppet in the rabble, blindly following me into the house.