“Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possibly have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possibly work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, then you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint.” - Alexandra Timmer

I read this a few days ago and it's been stuck inside my consciousness ever since. I have always loved Van Gogh's work and more so, have been intrigued by the person he was. His troubled but brilliant mind, his perseverance and dedication to his art. He sold just one painting while he was alive and lived in absolute penury but that didn't stop him from creating so many stunning works of art that still pique our interest even today. Who does that? Who works tirelessly for years, solely focusing on honing their craft? All I see around me are people trying to make a fast buck while leading empty, shallow, superficial lives and calling it making a living.

Van Gogh may have been the "craziest" soul that ever lived but he will always have my respect. Another thing that struck me after reading the above quote was the thought of my own "yellow paint". Yes, we all have our yellow paint, and I knew instantly that mine is writing. I pick at scabs and wounds and delve deep into my memories to write. I write about how I feel and my reactions to the world around me. I write to try and make sense of turmoil and even to remind myself that happiness courses through me like the blood in my veins. And sometimes when it gets too much, I write to crawl my way out of the pain. And it does get too much, writing drains me and leaves me feeling vulnerable and naked. It makes me aware of all the things that I've spent my life trying to run away from. It hurts and bleeds and feels as sore as a fresh tattoo. But still I write because after the deluge and the drain comes the healing. It empties that vessel of despair and fills me with hope again.

You think I am crazy to dig up old wounds because you can only see the discomfort and unpleasantness. After all, we live in a world that's all about the cover-up. Shiny happy smiling people floating in a luxuriously rarefied atmosphere. Airbrushed lives covering up every blemish and scar. Soft-toned filters to edge out the ugliness. I am fascinated by such lives and the people that flaunt them on their bejeweled sleeves. But I would rather put a gun to my head than live like that. The only masks I like are the ones I hang on my walls. I will always eat my yellow paint even if you think it's slowly killing me from the inside. Because it's better to die doing something you love than to spend a lifetime not knowing what makes you different from the rest of the world. Besides, yellow happens to be my favourite colour.