Anything Under the Sun

This, like any written manuscript, is a somewhat honest representation of my journey; and like any person who has existed and exists still, I, through tools of feeling, am
connected to all things in vicinity and those farther both in material and in time.

Hence, "Anything under the sun".

This is not an account of my worldly days; but a journal to how my mind paints worldly things while I lie awake, marinating in the happenings when the day is done.

I had seamlessly passed through perils of past under the enchantment of these tales told to me through whistling low exhales of own lips by some kind of unidentifiable.
Now, I blow into your mind.

what beginning should I choose?
Yes...

Infernos

I am a bag of moss. 23 and almost 24 years old,

a lost relic of dreams past.

In me are ants, they bite like fire as I lay on spire to hell...

Somewhere 'tween real and judgment fire.

The worst 'tween there is.

I grow toward a hostile light above;

shining down on my upon through membrane of worldly grounds.

For years I've been growing to know where I was:

'Tween two infernos.
***

Am I deserving of fictional heaven?
I am only moss.

A painting of days after my bachelor's degree.
Around this time I sat at home reading "Lust for life", written by Irving Stone, at a disturbingly slow pace.
An early disclosure: I had been in the process of reading it for three years.
The concerned would ask what I was doing and I would simply lift this worn incomplete read at them.

Being at the after of years of continual oscillation between too much enjoyment and condensed compensations for delayed work had thoroughly drained me, and had primed into me a phantom of degree passed, a wraith, internally making me hungrier and
inducing an inhuman craving for sleep. At some point I had even lost my personality and who I was; and unknowingly, every word I read from that book, every word I heard on the news or from people around, every touch... was forming me in that past present.

It wasn't like being born again, no.
My path was decided, but I could be anyone I wanted while living that path.

Irving Stone had taught me a lesson. Well, the lesson was his grace, his seemingly seamlessly plotted walkway for readers like me who would put the book down at the first low point.
It was careful, it was alive, the plot would not sleep and made me love his ideas. The rear of the book said it was mostly accurate, but it was so passable as completely nonfictional: real.
It was Irving Stone's thoughts masquerading as his protagonist's that made me fond of him, Vincent van Gogh.
The book covered a large chunk of Vincent's life with all details and I never put it down once. About Vincent, it had everything under the sun, in this compact bundle of pages. Me at my clay-like phase, fell prey to its ideas,
their ideas,
his and him-through Vincent's:
of beauty and how to write about the journey toward it.