Goodbye Theo, I will leave towards the spring.
  Goodbye Theo, I will leave towards the spring. letter stories
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ahmedalmdrydy24 Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
The beautiful letter was written by Syrian author Nabil Saleh years ago and everyone thought that it's actually van Gogh' last letter. Not so many people know about it even though it's very beautiful. I translated it from Arabic today so I can share it here and elsewhere.

Goodbye Theo, I will leave towards the spring.

Vincent van Gogh's Last Letter

"Dear Theo

Where's life taking me? what does the mind do to us? It takes happiness from things and drive us to bleakness...

...I'm rotting of boredom if it wasn't for my colours and brush, that I recreate things with, everything becomes cold and bleak when is touched by time... what do I do?

I want to create new lines and new colours other than those that we stumble upon everyday.

All old colours have a sad glow in my heart. Are they like that in nature or maybe my eyes are just sick? Here I am redrawing them as I light the fire concealed within them.

Among misery there are lines of happiness I want my colours to show them, in the crows' fields and wheat ears with their wrenched nicks. Even the farmer's shoe that is pouring sadness.

there is some happiness that I want to catch by colours and movement. Ugly things have an artistic specialty that we may not find in beautiful things and an artist's eye dose not miss that.

Today I drew a self portrait because every morning when I look in the mirror I tell my self:

O' you repeated face, you Van's ugly face! Why don't you get renewed!

I spit in the mirror and leave...

Today I reformed my face, not as what nature wanted but as I wanted:

A wolf's eyes, confused. a green face and a beard like flames. The ear was odd in the painting I didn't need it. I held the brush- I mean the blade and removed it...

...Looks like it mixed up for me, between my head in the painting and outside it... so, what do I do with this chunk of meat?

I sent it to the woman that didn't cherish me and the one that I thought I loved. It's fine let the unnecessary reunite... here is my ear, babbling woman, talk to it...

I can now hear and see with my fingers.

I sit thinking:

The world has aged. And it wrinkled more, oh God what could I do before the night falls over the soul tower?

The brush. The colours... and quickly, I start: straight and short brush strokes, sharp and svelte. My colours are clear and primitive. Yellow blue red...

I want to bring back things spontaneity like when the world first came out of it's cosmic egg.

I still remember:

The time was dusk or after dusk and before dawn. The lilac colour is wetting the horizon... Ah, the tremble of lilac. We were going to the orchard to steal cranberries.

I was sitting in the tree watching a green and yellow worm while Ursula the more joyful is jumping between branches and suddenly she was imbalanced and fell.

My chest was shaked before she hanged by my nick calling for help. I hugged her and she was breathing like a panicked deer...

and when she let me go a cranberry left it's lilac nectar on my white shirt.. since that day, since I was twelve I feel it's lilac nectar on my white shirt..

since that day, since I was twelve I feel like a happiness would fill me if it wasn't for a lilac hole that opened in my chest then the white poured... the tremble of lilac.

The idea is urging me and how it can not? I stare and stare at the eye of the sun where the soul of the universe is till my eyes burn me.

Two things move me:

staring at the sun... and at death...

I want to travel in the stars and this miserable body is stopping me!

When will we go, the sons of Earth, carrying our bloodied napkins?

-But to where?

-To the dream, of course.

Yesterday, I drew flowers in the colour of mud after I planted myself in the dust, Wheat green and yellow growing over my head, and the crows of memory are flying with no air. Wheat and crows.

Crows and wheat. The crows are clicking in my brain. Kraa Kraa... Everything is a dream. Nothing, and the brush of the dust is tricking us everytime...

soon I will bring back dust to dust, and unleash the bird from my chest to the land of sun.. Ah my bird I will open the cage for you with this pistol:

Red is pouring: Blood or fire?

My pipe is burning:

Black and white is colouring life with grey. Grey has an infinite number of possibilities: Reddish grey, bluish grey, greenish grey. Tobbaco is burning and life is being taken.

Ash has a bitter taste once we become familiar with, we get addicted to, just like life: the more we get older the more we get attached to it...

And that's why I will leave it in the peak of my burning.

Goodbye Theo, I will leave towards the spring."

I will leave towards the spring.

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