I know the painting he's currently working on.
It's the 'Sunflowers being painted by Van Gogh'.
And that would be the decisive reason that completely separates the two men.
Van Gogh glares at his friend, sitting at the table, drinking alone.
Watching his friend painting, he seems to be reflecting on the parts that angered him, trying to calm down.
I watched Van Gogh with a nervous heart.
If only he could see me, if we could talk, I'd jump in right away and try to calm him. But the dream doesn't allow it.
Hours that felt like days passed, and only the sound of Gauguin's brush echoed in the Yellow House. Van Gogh continued to drink heavily, grumbling.
Gauguin, after painting for quite a while, got up silently and went to the bathroom.
Left alone, Van Gogh took a drink and then stood in front of the painting he was working on. His expression gradually twisted as he looked at the painting.
I washed my face and looked at the painting of Gauguin that Van Gogh was glaring at.
In the painting, Van Gogh painting sunflowers, his eyes almost closed, as if drunk.
He seemed out of his mind, whether drinking or painting.
The sunflowers he was painting were wilted, leaves fallen, a grotesque sight.
The brush Van Gogh held was so thin, it looked almost like a thread.
Van Gogh, trembling with immense humiliation, muttered.
"This is... definitely me. But it seems like I'm crazy... Is this how he sees me?"
Then Gauguin, who had gone to the bathroom, stopped as he came back into the living room. Van Gogh slowly turned his head, glared at his friend, and then threw a bottle at his face.
"Get out! You don't even look like a painter!"
Fortunately, Gauguin narrowly avoided the bottle to the face and yelled.
"You crazy man! Throwing a bottle at someone?"
"What kind of person are you! You're not even human!"
"Your soul's been eaten by the green devil! You're not in your right mind!"
"Shut up! What were you thinking painting me like this!"
"Look at you now! How are you any different from the man in that painting!"
"Shut up! Just shut up!"
Drunk, Van Gogh was beyond reason. No one knew why Gauguin painted such a picture.
It could have been an attempt to sober up his drunk friend.
Or maybe it was out of anger, to mock him.
That's probably a truth only the parties involved would know.
Angered, Gauguin left the house, and Van Gogh, left alone, started to trash the place.
"Ughhhh!!!"
Van Gogh, pulling his hair in anger, eventually collapsed.
He bowed his head and a mumbling sound could be heard.
"I had to keep painting even when I heard voices in my mind saying I couldn't. When I painted... only then did the voices disappear. The human heart is like the sea. It has storms, tides, and deep within it, hidden jewels like pearls. But when will I find the pearl in my heart?"
Van Gogh lifted his head, exhaling breath heavy with the smell of alcohol.
And then he looked towards me.
I was standing in front of the window, startled, but he couldn't see me. He was just looking at the night view outside the open window.
"There's a huge fire in my soul. But no one comes close to feel its warmth. People just pass by and see a bit of smoke."
Van Gogh gazed thoughtfully at the portrait of himself painted by his friend.
"I'd rather die passionately than live in boredom."
Van Gogh slowly got up.
I screamed at his figure.
"No! Don't do it!"
But my cries couldn't reach him. From outside the window, I could only stomp my feet in frustration.
Van Gogh went to the bathroom, holding a razor in his hand. He came out and muttered while staring at the portrait his friend had painted.
"If they won't listen when I say this isn't me, then I'll make it so the person in this painting isn't me."
Van Gogh cut off his ear with the razor. Blood flowed freely, but he didn't seem to think of stopping it, just staring at his ear on the ground.
He was so drunk he seemed not to feel the pain. And then he collapsed.
Silence fell around.
I stood by the window, looking at the fallen Van Gogh with pity.
At dawn, Gauguin would return, find Van Gogh like this, and decide he could no longer stay with him. He would contact his brother and leave.
Upon hearing the news, Theo rushed home and took his brother to the hospital, but by then, the rumor that Van Gogh had gone mad and cut off his own ear had already spread throughout the village.
The villagers began to fear Van Gogh, and eventually, a petition was submitted to the town hall for his isolation.
Among those people were those with whom Van Gogh had been friendly since coming here.
Knowing this, Van Gogh walked into a mental hospital, deeply disappointed.
I stood alone by the window, looking at the unconscious Van Gogh, lost in thought.
We always make 'what-ifs' in life.
What if I hadn't said that then?
What if I had made a different choice?
What if I hadn't gone down that road?
What if I hadn't met that person?
What if I had held on a little longer?
But all these are futile echoes. The event has happened, and it's irreversible. Shooting echoes into the void is foolish.
Van Gogh returned to Arles after leaving the mental hospital but could not bear the looks of the people and eventually left.
And after staying 70 days in the same inn I had traveled to, he went alone into a wheat field and shot himself in the stomach.
It's a truly tragic and sad event.
I am very sad. The last moments of my hero in my heart were too tragic.
Disappointed in people, causing trouble, and then disappointing them again with such behavior - this lonely man was Van Gogh's last image.
Standing alone by the window, looking at the unconscious Van Gogh, I muttered to myself.
"I... need to make a different choice."
I won't repeat the vicious cycle like Van Gogh.
Reviving the hero in my heart doesn't mean making the same choices and expecting the same results.
Expecting different outcomes by repeating the same process is a mental problem.
I will use the disappointment from others as a driving force to make an entirely different choice.
That must be why this art gallery showed me this dream.
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