We are...คือเรารักกัน (We are... we are in love)

Chapter 75: The Value of Love

[T/n: I'm so sorry I broke my promise 🙏. Yesterday I went to the hospital. I have been suffering from GERD for 5 years. No worry, doctor said everything is fine. But I was body shamed. The nurse couldn't find my vein then she started complaining that I was so skinny and my arms were so thin, then her eyes shifted her gaze to my legs and she exclaimed "But your thighs are so thick." Because I'm born with it, girl!]
*This chapter hasn't been proofread.

I sat watching the sun sinking into the horizon, its last rays illuminating the sky, gradually changing its colors. It's beautiful, befitting the term "enchanted moment" as it is a fleeting, magical, and mesmerizing instance. The atmosphere during sunrise and sunset is never the same, despite it being the same sun and sky.

The gradient of colors painted by the sun at the horizon is more stunning and captivating than the brushstrokes of the great Impressionist painters. It's as if nature presents a new masterpiece every day. It is a truth and clear evidence that no matter how skilled we humans become, no matter how far we advance the world, we can never surpass nature. We cannot conquer it, nor should we even attempt to compete.

Spending several days immersed in the Blue Hour made me think of Picasso's Blue Period. During that phase, the renowned artist experienced deeply distressing events, leading him into a state of depression and hopelessness. He channeled those emotions onto the canvas, with blue as the dominant color in his work—a color representing sadness.

Many people say that artists possess magic, but some think it's more of a curse, as few artists ever live a normal, peaceful life. Whether they are world-renowned artists or struggling ones, the condition of an artist's mind seems to be quite similar—alienated, depressed, confused, struggling, and bitter. In the process of extracting their own suffering and pouring it onto the canvas or into their writing, they expose themselves for others to judge, devouring criticisms as their sustenance. It's even more pitiful than selling one's body for food.

Many say that artists possess magic, while others believe it's more of a curse since almost no artist leads a smooth and ordinary life, whether they are world-class masters or struggling individuals. Being called an artist seems to come with a shared emotional burden—alienation, despair, confusion, striving, bittersweetness—all while extracting their inner turmoil to paint, draw, or bare their soul for the world to admire or criticize. They swallow the criticism as sustenance, selling their soul for food, a fate even more pitiable than selling their body.

Will my life be any different from theirs? Will this pain of mine become just another piece of work? Will the love I have for Phum remain eternal on the canvas, even after I have left this world for many years? Am I destined to be like that?

It has been several days of constant reflection as I sit watching the sun set beyond the horizon. I've spent time with myself, cutting off contact with friends by blocking everyone's numbers. I couldn't bring myself to turn off my phone, just in case my parents called, I was afraid they'd worry if they couldn't reach me. However, if unknown numbers called, I wouldn't answer, and fortunately, there haven't been many.

I've fully entered an escapist state, even though I know full well that I can't escape from myself. Yet, stubbornly and foolishly, I've persisted, only to find, as expected, that there is no escape. The image of Phum's face continued to linger vividly in my mind, and I allowed myself to think of him as much as I wanted. I didn't attempt to move on, nor have I ever considered forgetting him. Why should I, when we didn't part ways due to a lack of love but because we were forced to? I will remember Phum this way and love him this way.

I took advantage of being in a state of depression to harness those emotions, throwing myself into painting with fervor, imitating Picasso. I wanted to capture this emotional phase in paintings inspired by Monet, pouring my feelings out passionately. It felt both like an act of release and a form of healing, as if reconnecting with the emotions I experienced when I first began to draw.