What's the Point of Living, when the best is Sleeping? [BL]

Special: Picture of Spring³

His ability to convey emotion through painting was nothing short of remarkable, using light strokes of watercolor mixed with the richness of oil pastels. The combination of both wet and somewhat dried materials on the canvas created a texture that drew passersby in, giving them a glimpse of the depth behind each stroke. The painting didn't just show a scene; it breathed life, with every hue and shade radiating emotion. The passerbys could almost feel the vibrant springtime it depicted, as though they were stepping into the fresh air alongside the young figure in the image.

The subject of the painting, a youth discovering the bloom of spring for the first time, radiated innocence and wonder. Birds flitted in the air above him, their song blending with the soft light of dawn. The youth's heart seemed to beat in time with the rhythm of the world around him, a reflection of the painter's own feelings—those of discovery, newness, and love. The air itself felt lighter in the scene, as if the youth was venturing not just into the season, but into love itself.

Clearly, love is love. The purest, most undeniable truth of the painting is that it captures love in its rawest form, a love so deep that the artist felt drawn into it, consumed by it. The layers of color represent not just the scene, but the depth of emotion that even the painter himself longed to dive into, as if exploring the mystery of the Mariana Trench—the deepest and most mysterious place in the ocean. That's how love felt to him: a vast and uncharted depth, waiting to be explored.

If his love were to be compared to the water of the Earth, it would have no limits, no boundaries. It would be vast, endless, and take on many forms. His love would transcend the Earth itself, stretching into the cosmos. He would be Saturn, with its rings of water in frozen and vapor form, swirling around him in an eternal dance. He would be Uranus, with its icy waters locked in place, and Neptune, whose frozen oceans are beyond the reach of the sun. In every form, whether frozen or fluid, his love would continue to show the enormity of what he felt for the youth who occupied his thoughts.

He was well aware that this kind of obsession was unhealthy. His rational mind acknowledged it, but that didn't stop him. People often say that eating unhealthy food can sometimes make you stronger, that it can help your body build resilience. In his mind, it was the same with love. This obsessive, unhealthy love was like nourishment for his mental endurance. The more he fed into it, the more his mind circled back to it, unable to break free from the cycle. It was his nourishment, his addiction, and he didn't care if it was slowly consuming him.

"Obsession," a painting by Maksim Krapht, often came to mind. Krapht's exploration of oblivion by destroying the image of an object resonated deeply with him. The heart of Krapht's visual language was ephemerality—the fleeting, transient nature of things. It captured the exact feeling of obsession he felt. The painting revealed how obsession could take hold of the mind, turning everything into a fuzzy delusion, a hazy version of reality where boundaries between love and fixation blur. He felt the same—his obsession with the youth was something that both thrilled him and tore him apart.

The colors in his own painting reflected the rush of emotions he experienced. Each stroke of the brush was like a heartbeat, each blend of color an echo of his internal turmoil. The surging reds, the cool blues, the vibrant greens—they all flowed from him with the intensity of his feelings. His hand moved instinctively, following the rhythm of the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, each beat of their wings bearing the strange, unexplainable feeling that only love—and obsession—could create.

In moments like these, he thought of Lichtenstein, another artist whose work had been consumed by obsession. Lichtenstein was inflicted by the same overwhelming passion as Monet had been before him, creating 18 paintings, 7 study drawings, and 8 prints all focused on the same subject, as if repeating the image could help him understand it better, could capture something new each time.

He found himself in the same position as Lichtenstein, driven by the same obsessive force. His mind was locked on one person—Ye Ming, the youth whose very existence seemed to fuel every brushstroke. The 18 paintings he envisioned in his mind were all images of the youth, capturing different angles, different moments. Each one was a study of the same face, the same eyes, the same expression of innocence and purity. The 7 study drawings were variations of the youth's hands, his posture, his laughter. The 8 prints—replicas of those same images, slightly altered but forever tied to the subject of his obsession.

As he painted, the world around him faded. The strokes became more deliberate, as if by recreating the youth over and over, he could somehow bring him closer, make him his. Yet, despite this obsession, a part of him knew that such a love was unrequited, unattainable. The youth, in all his radiant beauty, existed outside of his world, untouched by the intensity of his emotions. But that didn't stop him. In his art, he could possess him in a way reality wouldn't allow.

Love, after all, was about capturing the essence of what was felt, even if it could never truly be held. And in the lines and colors of his painting, his love for the youth was immortalized—frozen in time, yet eternal. Each piece of art was a love letter, not to be read but to be felt, as endless as the water he imagined spanning the Earth and the distant planets. His obsession may have been unhealthy, but in the quiet of his studio, it was the only truth he knew.