#van gogh used the thickness of the pain itself

[theskydoesgreatthingsnow]

I know the goal of Ai is to get it to be “good” (read:produce things that look real, human made, and without glitch) but I for one really like the era where they produce fucked up, fritzing-out surrealist too bad to fully be plagiarism glory. I for one welcome The T Whoinis Kiovw.

[snow--blanket]

painter and eclipse

word count: 4099

collab with @otumbalt~ my piece for the @ikevampzine!

characters: vincent van gogh

fandom: ikemen vampire

tw: implications of depression, suicide ***

The end of everything felt like a warm bowl of soup, Vincent realised. 

When he woke up, he felt his body sway like he was being bounced in the hold of his mother, with her soft face and her sparkling eyes. Vincent came to realise that he was on a ship, something he'd never been on before. He stood up, pausing when vertigo took him, and walked to the edge of the ship, where he saw the water was murky and indecipherable. It was so dark and still, despite the ship breaking its waves. He couldn't even tell if there were fish underneath. 

He walked alongside the rim of the ship, and then stood over the bow, where he felt no cool breeze or wind to grace him. Odd. How did it move without wind? His eyes wandered above. He could not tell if it was dusk or dawn. The sky seemed to be gray as glue, and there was a hazy mist of smoke that seemed to spread itself thick, rendering the horizon distant and unknown. 

“I will not allow you to become a gift to these waters,” said a voice behind him, and Vincent nearly fell overboard. His hands found purchase in the grit of the grainy wood, and he leveraged his arms to look behind him. 

Vincent blinked. There was a woman, and she was dressed in a white dress with dark red and black lace. Vincent recalled painting an eclipse before. He was staring at one. “Hello,” he answered back. “Where am I?” 

“We're headed elsewhere,” she replied. She held a rather blurry smile, like a smudged painting. 

Vincent opened his mouth, but hesitated. “Is it someplace I know?” 

She was quiet. “Yes.”

He nodded. “Then, that's alright.” He pushed himself up from the gunwale and extended a hand. “My name is Vincent.”

She reached out hers and held his. “You can just call me whatever you'd like.”

“You don't have a name?” 

She shook her head. 

Vincent thought about it, and then smiled. “What about Lisse?” 

Her eyes widened. He realised that they were like dark chocolate. “Like… Elise?” 

He shook his head. “Like eclipse.” Vincent pointed to her clothes. “Your dress reminds me of an eclipse.”

“Oh,” she said it so softly, like a gentle wake up call. “That's very pretty.”

Vincent smiled back. “You're a very pretty person.”

Lisse smiled at him, and it further proved his point. She had a lovely smile. It was less like a painting now and more like charcoal on paper. She fitted well amongst the black waters. 

It was hard to tell the passing of time on the ship. Vincent had tried to count the seconds, then the minutes, then the hours—but like her smile, the numbers smudged in his mind in a blur and he could not tell where one started and two began. 

He had tried to go into the hold of the ship before, but she was there like a ghost before he could enter. She simply smiled and shook her head, as mysterious as the Mona Lisa. He did not know why she smiled. 

There was a plate of pancakes in front of him, doused with syrup that looked like the glue of the sky in its thick ribbons, and the sticky way it clung to the pancakes. Vincent turned the plate this way and that, wondering if there was a trick of the light that had convinced his eyes golden. 

Lisse was sitting across from him, a plate of thorny stone fruits in her lap. They resembled sea urchins, but when she cracked open the hazardous exterior, there was a golden nugget there. She took it and put it in her mouth, her tongue swiping her bottom lip. She looked at Vincent. “Aren't you going to eat?” 

Vincent woke out of his trance, her voice the sound of heels snapping a twig on a forest floor. He smiled sheepishly. “In a second. I'm curious about something.”

She regarded him carefully. He had tried to make conversation with Lisse before, but she was a quiet person, making do with only smiling as her method of communication. When she spoke, he could barely hear her above the sound of the sloshing water. “I didn't poison it.”

His heart climbed. “N-No! I don't… That's not what I meant. I was wondering if this was really syrup.”

Lisse blinked. “You can taste it…”

Vincent smiled bashfully. “That is true, however, I'm accustomed to looking at things.” Of course, if he was back home with Theo, he would not have hesitated to gobble down the dish in a second. Here it was different. When he looked closer to the water, it was not murky and black like tar, but foiled like silver ribbons. As if someone had cut a portion of the night sky and tied it to the barren earth. “It's a bit silly, isn't it?” 

She cocked her head. “Why would that be silly?” 

He felt red flush to his face. “I guess it's not.” 

She was quiet for a while, and then stood up. Vincent followed her with his eyes, and he didn't resist when she took the plate of pancakes from his hands. She headed to the rim of the ship, and Vincent followed suit when she beckoned. “Look.” She took the spooned syrup and let it dribble slowly into the water, which then turned to small rivers of gold. The syrup that had touched the surface of the water did not have the transparent sheen of honey, but rather the gilded luster of a crown. 

If Vincent were to open his mouth any wider, he was sure his jaw would lock. He looked over to Lisse. “That's amazing…! And I can eat something like that?” 

Lisse nodded. She didn't look as impressed as Vincent was, but he was too absorbed in watching the path of gold slowly trail behind the ship slowly, like the touch of Midas. 

She handed him back the plate of pancakes and returned to sitting on the deck, where she cracked open more of the thorny fruits. In the end, Vincent ate his whole stack of pancakes (he felt rude if he didn't), using the remaining syrup left and opined the shimmering water on his new canvas, his spoon the brush. 

It was the next meal, and Lisse did not eat.

Vincent looked at her—mostly in concern, but also out of curiosity. “You're not hungry?” 

She shook her head. “I don't feel hunger.”

His breath was in sync with the gently swaying ship and the crests of the waves. “I sometimes don't feel hunger, too.”

He has gotten to know her a little better. When she is shocked, her ears flex slightly, and her jaw becomes… much softer, rounder. As if she was made from flesh and not sculpted from stone. Her eyes shone like tempered chocolate, a sheen finish glossing them. “Humans are always hungry for something,” she said. Her stare pierced him, the glass cage around his heart shattering by a single well-placed nail. “What is it like to not starve? To not want anything?” 

“It feels like…” Vincent's hand took to his belly. “Like there is only night in my stomach.” He did not look at Lisse. He did not try. “Like it is an eternal solstice. Like I am in an endless desert and all I could do was walk for hours on end.”

Vincent could not bear to look at her. They were both in each other's company, walking through the desert and only tasting sand. 

Her voice broke the silence, and he could hear it clearly this time. “I will pray for you.”

“For what?” Vincent toyed with the spoonful of syrup and the tanned pancakes that reminded him of his mother's wedding ring. It was not like the golden river of syrup at all. It was dull and muted, a sign of an unhappy marriage. 

“That whatever causes night in you might leave stars.”

Vincent was quiet. “I will pray for you, too.”

Lisse tilted her head, puzzled. “What for?” 

“That whatever causes the ocean in you might leave pearls.”

She laughed, a gentle sound. The breeze carried, then, and it was as if her voice was a summer wind-chime and he had been waiting all his life to return to. 

The moon changed her face, and Vincent could not breathe. 

He felt his lungs fill, felt his throat seized by a snake binding itself around his neck like grapevines to wood. He made wounds in the water, as if it could liberate him from the smothering hold of the sea. The water was neither kind nor gentle, and he was foolish to think otherwise. The tides kept rising, and Vincent only now realised that even underwater, shadows could form. 

He would seek a water sleep, then. 

He ignored his pained eyes—strange how they burned, still, amongst moistness—and closed them. Lisse was wrong, he realised. He would not be a gift. He would be an intruder. Vincent let his body convulse and throttle uselessly against the current. It was dark below the water, and even without opening his eyes, he could feel the glow of the sea lanterns and its orange light guiding his way deep, deep down. 

Suddenly, he felt the harsh glare of the sun on his face. Strange. There was no sun to be seen above. Vincent slowly opened his eyes, regaining focus. The water wanted to exit his windpipe, so he allowed himself to cough and sputter onto the deck. His hands were too weak to push himself up, so he remained there, the ridges of the wooden planks hard against his back. His chest heaved like a spazzed fish out of water. 

He breathed, and it felt as if he was being sewn together tightly. He could feel the metallic tang in his mouth, needle and thread closing the seams between his ribs. Air returned to him like an unwilling old flame. Lisse watched him silently, and when Vincent had enough strength, he sat up. 

Lisse stood up, walking into the hold of the ship. When she came back, she was holding two plates of pancakes. She placed a plate near him, and started to eat her own helping. 

Despite the cold water, Vincent did not get chills when the slight gust of wind passed through him like a paper doll. He let a sigh slip past his lips, and then he took the plate of pancakes and began eating. 

“It tastes normal,” she said in between chews. 

Vincent looked at her. Surely, the pancakes were dull in comparison to her who ate gold and thorns for a meal. “It tastes better after a hard day's work,” he said. The words were not foreign, for they were not his. He was merely recounting Theo's from memory. He had missed him so. 

She stayed her hand, and then looked at Vincent. “Did you want to become the night sea so badly that you dove in without thought?” 

“I—” Vincent stuttered, “I'm sorry.”

“I did not ask for an apology. I was asking for an answer.”

He felt himself flush red under her attentive stare, feeling like he was back home again, where the nuns and sisters would reprimand him for his lack of focus. “I thought dying would be easy.”

She was quiet. It was a strange thing. Whenever other people were silent, he could usually hear their voices in his head. He could hear Arthur's lopsided grin and Theo's blaring, sarcastic voice. Even William's bass-like words, like the sound of cello strings being played on. When he was with Lisse, he could not hear her voice or the voice of others. As if her silence itself was a language, and his mind quieted itself trying to understand it. 

“Death will not be easy for you,” Lisse finally spoke. Vincent blinked at her. “To die means to leave something behind, to be on a pilgrimage to the unknown.” She leaned closer, then slowly, she traced his stomach to his heart with her finger. The movement sent his heart tickling and butterflies fluttering in his belly. She looked him in the eyes, and her eyes were not chocolate, but the colour of soil. The colour of a grave dug up, a wound in the earth. “What is left in you to leave?” 

She knows. Vincent felt his heart pound, strangely alive in irony. She knows. She knows that I'm empty. She knows, she knows—

Vincent's breath quickened involuntarily, and Lisse retreated her finger, pale like the moon. Her eyes returned to normal, but he could not look at her in her eclipse-like sight. He felt that if he did, he would go blind. “Do not try this again.”

I will not allow you to become a gift to these waters. She had kept true to her word, so why did it feel like his lungs were full of water again, and not air? 

It is however-many days after his attempted suicide, and like a spider, he spent his time eating his own heart. 

He weathered the night in him like one might weather an oncoming storm. What is the difference, anyway? The sea at storm in her might as well be eternal night in him. Vincent felt that if he were to give shape or words to the darkness that plagued him sick and hollow and unbaked like mud, he would sooner fall into the ocean again. 

He remembered what Arthur had told him. The young doctor pseudo-detective told him about the things he had seen during his time in the War, and he personally recounted his own experiences to illustrate his example. He called it post-traumatic stress disorder. He said it was a common illness amongst soldiers, but not limited to them. 

Vincent remembers the somehow-always-damp room and the way Arthur had threaded his voice from sensuous silk to comforting, fuzzy wool. His voice was warm like simmering milk. “Sometimes I get these… signals.”

“What kind?” 

Vincent was not a very good student in school, and often daydreamed as a means for an escape. His leg started bouncing, and he stilled his knee with a hand. “I don't know. Like—like I start feeling jittery and I feel like… Like there is a stone on my chest. Like I am barely above water, and I forgot how to swim.”

Arthur leaned, resting his chin in his palm. A quiet swept them both, and Vincent let Arthur's voice echo inside his head like a rattling bell. “How long does it last?” 

“I think, a few minutes. It's—it's really weird. I feel like a feral—beast whenever it happens. Like, you know one of those mythological creatures? Werewolves or vampires or something? Like one of those.” 

Arthur hummed. “Do you feel like you're in danger whenever that feeling comes?” 

Vincent shrugged, turning his attention to the dusty shelves, finding them very interesting at the moment. “Not… exactly. I just feel like I'm about to die. I know that my life isn't being threatened, but my—mind just fizzles out after being lit like a firecracker, and then it shrivels up into smoke. I find myself unable to do anything for a few hours just because of how tired I get.”

Arthur poked Vincent's nose with a pen. “I think what you're experiencing are called panic attacks.”

“Panic… attacks?” 

He nodded, then pushed his glasses further up. “Panic attacks are actually more common than you think, and they happen to a wide demographic of people, not just people who have been in war.” Seemingly having gotten an idea, Arthur left the room in a hurry, and then came back with two glasses of iced tea. 

He gave one to Vincent, who accepted it with a small thank you. Arthur reached for an ice cube and showed it to him. “Whenever you're feeling like that, press an ice cube to the roof of your mouth.”

“Why?” 

“It's the quickest way to shock your body in a harmless way. Some people use pain—via elastic bands—but I find ice cubes to be most effective for me. Of course, it varies from person to person on how well they work, but this is a good start, no?” 

Vincent looked at the drink in his hands, then reached for an ice cube. He contemplated it for a few seconds, then popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened, and he looked at Arthur. “It's really refreshing,” he said. 

Arthur grinned that perfect, toothpaste-commercial smile. “Isn't it? It also helps because it's likely that you're dehydrated.”

Vincent could not tell the time, so he did not know what day or hour he woke up not being able to breathe. 

He was drowning again. Drowning in the midnight waters, just as he had before. 

His whole body was shaking. He was not in the hands of the gently swaying ship anymore, but a leaf in a thunderstorm. Vincent tried easing his breaths into following the rhythms of the ocean crests, but he could not follow. What is left in you to leave? 

Lisse was here this time, for the second time he had drowned. She crouched in front of him, and as if embarrassed, Vincent hid his face in his hands. Don't look at me, he thought. If you look too closely, all you'll see is an empty box. 

He could not form the words to tell her to go away, nor had he the heart for it. Lisse realised that fact fairly quickly and capitulated on it. She was unending in her cruelty, but Vincent found even that part of her beautiful. She sat cross-legged in front of him, only staring in silence. She did not smile or speak or hush him kindly. Any port in a storm, as they say. He could not have Theo's grounding hand or Arthur's silver tongue to tether him, but it was okay. She was an anchor. She would not let him drift. 

When his breaths returned to him in gulps, he wiped the sweat off his brow and felt his muscles relax. He lied on the wooden deck, like a squeezed out dishrag that had grown tired and damp from use. Vincent's chest felt different this time. Not like he was drowning, but as if his lungs were see-saws, and there were children playing in the cavity of them. 

Vincent pushed to sit straight and faced her. “Thank you,” he said.

Lisse did not smile. He learned this, too: if her silence was a language, her lips gave them tune. When she did not smile that indecipherable, Mona Lisa smile, it was something new he had to pay attention to. “I didn't do anything.” This fact was not untrue. 

“Just being here helped,” Vincent insisted. He smiled at her. 

Lisse looked away, and her hair caught the light in a metallic glow. “You are stronger than you think,” she said. 

Now it was Vincent who looked away from her. He could not reject her kindness, so what he said was: “Thank you.”

He could feel her stare even without looking. “I have never met someone who thanked me so much for doing nothing.”

“Not nothing. You pulled me out of the water twice already.”

She blinked. “Twice? It was only once.” 

“Nevermind that.”

“Only dead things stay afloat,” she whispered, like a gust of wind blowing through a ghost town. “You sank. Does that not mean there is something in you?” 

He started to fiddle with his fingers, humming and hawing. “Nothing worth looking at.”

“Must you be someone worth looking at to exist freely?” 

“If I—” he started, but quieted when he realised he had raised his voice. Lisse seemed like a person that was able to accept you for everything that you are to the point that it was all too easy to mistreat her. Vincent took a deep breath. She did not deserve his frustration. If it was even that. “If I am not… worthy of looking at, or creating things worthy of looking at, then there is no point.”

The world was full of beautiful things. Therefore, the things he created had to be beautiful by proxy. He dared not give a shape to the night inside him. No torch to light his path, lest lesser creatures might prey on his mind that was brittle like glass, cracked like defected vases. He had tried to cover the gaps with sand, with clay, with the blood under his nails. But the water kept coming onto him like tides, as if it was the harmless August breeze and he crashed into himself like windchimes.

“Even if you are not beautiful, the fact that you have lived is true.” She paused. “You may not know what is in yourself that is worth looking at, but… aren't you creating? Aren't you giving value to this world, if only for yourself?” 

It was an inevitable conclusion that he had to voice out. “But what value is there in being myself?” 

Lisse did not avert her eyes. “I… don't know. I have seen many people on this ship, many who did not cross the river in the end. I cannot say many of them are worthless people, even if they are horrible to others or to themselves in their lives. But they are living, and isn't that something? That's why…” She stood up, dragging him by his hands. She walked to the gunwale, and smiled at him one last time. 

“You must wake up now.”

Lisse shoved him overboard. 

Vincent woke up heaving. He squinted his eyes shut when he did, not used to the light after spending so much time on the ship with only the moon as his lantern. When the nurse came in, her eyes widened like saucers, and the clipboard she held in her hands fell to the floor. She called for the doctors, and then men and women in white coats fussed themselves over Vincent, saying something about kidney failure and miracles. 

After the doctors left, Theo trudged into the room with the heft of a soldier but the face of a mother, and Vincent knew he was where he was supposed to be. “Good morning.”

“If you even think about putting another bullet through you again—” 

“I won't—” 

“What makes you think I'll—” 

“I won't,” he said, smiling. He had missed Theo dearly. The grit of his gravel voice like walking down a forest path. “I'm sorry, Theo.”

Affronted by his honesty and the genuine repentance in his eyes, Theo's breath halted in frustration, then he sighed. “I won't ask why,” he said, “I already know the reason. I just—” His face scrunched in pain, and Vincent's chest stung again, water in his lungs. “Don't put me through that again, Vincent. Please.”

Theo's cruelty and Lisse's were the same. Vincent almost laughed. “I promise I won't try anything like that again, but I can't promise I won't worry you anymore.”

“I don't need that kind of promise. I'd rather worry about your sleep schedule every day for the rest of my life than cry about a bullet that went through your brain.” Theo's rough manner of speaking was like sand, too. Remembering himself, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to be crass.”

Vincent laughed. He found it surprisingly easier to laugh now. “What else can you be but crass, Theo? It's who you are.” He looked at Theo with a newfound love and tenderness, and he did not know where this love had escaped him when he could not breathe. What nook of his body was unexplored, fugitive to his hands? He did not know. Perhaps he would spend his life figuring it out. 

Vincent didn't know himself well enough yet, but that's who he was. A painter, and a person who thought the world was beautiful. He looked outside of the window then, and he did not flinch when the glare of the afternoon sun yielded itself to him. He stood up and walked towards the window, looking downwards to see a dog barking at him, slack-jawed and salivating. The dog continued to bark and yelp, even as the onlookers walked away, announcing his existence so clearly. 

His name was Vincent van Gogh, and he had a place in a family of things. 

When he was finally released from the hospital, he sat in front of his canvas and painted the moon in eclipse and a black river like the night sky. In those waters, he would not be a stranger. 

[beerecordings]

Hai bee! I’m not sure if your doing suggestions right now, but would I be able to suggest ‘magical exhaustion’ with someone? If not that’s totally fine!

“Okay. Ready?”

Their heads knock together. Their hands are clutched tight. Marvin feels their shoulder-blades digging together, firm and certain. Feels the steady rising and falling of his chest. Feels it when Jameson nods.

“Hold tight to me. No matter what happens. We only have one chance. I don’t know how else to send him away.”

Another nod. Marvin squeezes his brother’s hands. Feels his power burning at the tips of his fingers.

“I - I should warn you,” he stammers, one final message. “JJ, this could hurt.”

His tittering, breathy laugh. Marvin can’t help but grin. Jameson nods again.

“Okay, tough guy,” he chuckles.

His eyes light up blue. He tastes petrichor in the air. Feels a storm building between Jameson’s fingers.

“Three,” he breathes, clutching his hand. “Two - one.”

Their magics are twins.

Their magics are hurricanes.

Marvin screams aloud as he lets power rip through him like a razor, near to tearing him into silver and blue light, leaving nothing behind. Jameson holds him tight, the only thing grounding in the middle of the storm, the only thing that matters in the middle of the storm; he is spinning, exploding, dying, alive, he is an ocean, an earthquake, a star, collapsing - he hears someone scream and prays that is Anti, holding onto his Jameson, holding on, holding on, holding on, hold tight to me, no matter what, if we break too soon this is all for nothing and Chase is lost to us, hold on, hold on, hold on -

He lasts a few minutes. He’s strong. He holds on.

And then his hand slips from Jameson’s grasp, and he crumples like a corpse to the ground, and that is all he knows for a very long time.

He’s… swamp water.

Ugh, my head.

He’s mud. He’s molasses. He’s a car with a dying engine, panting slower and slower, dragging itself to the side of the road.

What the hell did I do to myself?

“Marvin?”

There are warm hands on either side of his face, the fingers scratchy with bandages. Marvin coughs and tries to turn over on his side, only to find something poking painfully into his arm.

“Ow, ow,” he whimpers. “Henrik, stop.”

Someone chuckles anxiously. “It’s Chase, Marv. Just an IV. You - you with me, man?”

“Mmh… Chase…”

He’s running his fingers through his hair, massaging gently at his skull. Marvin sighs sleepily, his hollowed eyes flickering.

Wait - Chase?

“Chase!” he cries, jerking awake and nearly slamming their skulls together. Chase falls back, startled, and bursts into laughter - or maybe he’s crying?

“Marv, Marv!”

“Amata, oh, Chase, I was so scared, I thought we’d lost you - ”

“No, no, you saved me, Marv, you and Jameson…”

Marvin wraps his little brother in his trembling arms, pulling him close to his shoulder, breathing in his warm vanilla smell. He is wrapped up in bandages, on his hands, on his face - even around his pale neck.

“Poor Chase, poor Chase,” whispers Marvin, clinging woozily to him. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m okay, Marv. I’m going to be okay.”

“I was scared, I - ”

“I know. I know. We’re okay.”

“We’re - we’re okay.” Marvin is losing his grip on Chase’s shoulders. He can hear his blood rushing through his head, getting lighter and lighter, he - he can’t move, he’s just falling -

Chase catches him and lowers him back onto the bed, calling his distant name as Marvin’s eyes roll back in his head, faint and exhausted. “Schneep!” Chase shouts, turning back towards the door of the clinic. “Schneep, are you there?”

By the time Marvin comes back to himself, he has two little brothers fussing over him and a cool oxygen mask pressed up to his mouth. He breathes in deep, sighing as Henrik’s cool hand rubs over his shoulder, steady, comforting.

“I’ve never been so tired in my life,” he whispers.

“Thank God you’re awake,” murmurs Henrik.

“Was I so bad, Schneep?”

“For a while. You’re alright now. Your eyes are so dark you are a raccoon instead of a cat, but I think some sleep will fix it. Listen, though, you must stay with me a moment longer.”

A faint tremble in his voice rouses Marvin up from his pillows, rubbing at his face. “Henrik, what’s wrong?”

“I need - I need you to tell me everything you know about magical exhaustion.”

“Need me to… why, you said I was okay? Did something strange happen? Did my eyes bleed?”

“Yes, brother, but - ”

“I’ll be okay, Schneep. The bleeding and the exhaustion, they go away.”

“How about a seizure?” demands Henrik, gripping his shoulder, his white mouth trembling. “Is that normal, is a seizure normal?”

“What? A seizure?”

“Or a change in the skin color, maybe, or some sort of strange paralysis, like the body has stopped responding, like time has stopped, like - I do not know anything about magic, I don’t know what is wrong, Marvin…”

Through the thickness of the swamp water, Marvin has dragged himself back to consciousness anyway, panting as he pulls himself sitting up. He can’t sleep now. The last time Henrik’s voice broke like that, Jackie’s lungs were filling up with fluid. He barely survived the night.

“Henrik, what are you talking about? Did I have a seizure?”

“No, you are okay, you’re okay, it’s - it’s - ”

Chase’s gaze flicks away from Marvin and over to the other side of the clinic. Dragging himself up, harsh breaths rising from his piston-pump lungs, Marvin follows his eyes to the bed set apart from his own, where Jameson lies, his skin so colorless he is greyer than a dead thing. In black and white, a loaned red sleep shirt is wildly bright against his film-color flesh, and even the oxygen mask over his slack face seems bright in comparison.

“No, no, no,” groans Marvin, struggling on shaky arms to drag himself out of bed, unable to get past Chase, who begs him to lie back down, holding his shoulders and pushing him back. “No, no, no, he used too much, he went too far - how - how did he keep going so far, he’s trapped in his own power?”

“What do I do?” demands Henrik, clutching at his pallid hands. Marvin’s eyes drift and he squeezes his fingers, desperate. “Marvin, please, please, tell me what to do! Why won’t he wake up? Why does he keep having seizures? It’s like there is no energy left in all his body, in his brain! Marvin?”

He’s losing the battle with unconsciousness, but his eyes are fixed open by the sight of his little brother, stretched out on his bed like a corpse. He needs to do something, he needs to say something, he needs to save him! He sways in his brothers’ grip and Henrik and Chase both catch him together, trying to keep him steady as he passes out.

“He gave more than I did,” gasps Marvin, as the world swirls around him like the colors of Van Gogh - warm, moving, incomprehensible. “But our magics are twins.”

“Marvin, we don’t know what you mean,” moans Chase, stroking his hair. “Please, you have to tell us what to do.”

They went out together. They have to come back together too.

“Just bring him here to me,”  croaks Marvin, reaching out. “Bring him here and lay him down with me. I can share my strength. We just need to hold on to each other. We just need to hold on. Jameson, Jameson.”

“Are you sure?” worries Henrik, clutching at his hand.

“Yes. Henrik. Bring him here to me.”

His exhausted fingers shake with the effort of drawing new power. But what he has, he’ll share with Jamie, and they can cling to each other when the weakness comes. He doesn’t know how else to save him.

“Hold on,” he croaks, as Chase leaves his side to pick up their little brother, scooping Jameson into his arms and returning with him to Marvin. Oh, his little body is cold, his chest draws painful air; the sensation of lightning is gone from his film-reel fingers.  “Hold on tight, no matter what… Asteriscus, starling…”

Jameson gives a very soft sigh. Marvin feels his magic stir and answer the drained hands of its twin - and a moment later, at the very ends of his fingers, a little color has returned to Jameson. There isn’t really enough to share, but it will have to be. It will have to be. Jameson can have all of it if that’s what he needs. Exhausted, Marvin crashes back onto his pillows, coughing frailly, clutching at Jamie’s shoulders.

“It’s going to be okay,” promises Chase, helping Henrik slip the mask back over Jameson’s mouth. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“It was worth it, anyway, to keep you safe,” mumbles Marvin, his mask clicking against Jameson’s as he sinks back down towards sleep, his eyes fluttering shut. He reaches out to find Jameson’s hands beneath the blankets, and he clutches his cold fingers tight, tight, tight. “We knew what we were doing, amata… we chose this knowing it was worth it to keep you safe… don’t tell yourself anything different.”

Chase chokes out a noise close to a sob, calling reassurances. Henrik’s hand lies warm on Marvin’s shoulder. These are the last things he sense for a long time.

He lets his power go again, but this time it is quiet.

Their magics are twins.

Their magics are disaster zones, empty, cold, with the pair of them held close together in the middle, trying to breathe through the aftermath.

Their magics are exhausted.

But they’re not dying yet.

Jameson wakes up to sunlight on his face, and warm hands wrapped around him. Blinking, he turns to his side and finds Marvin pressed up against him like a body pillow, his arms stretched out over his chest. Abundantly bemused, he looks the other way and finds another brother - Jackie, now, his hand resting on Jameson’s shoulder, but the rest of his body relaxed in an armchair pulled all the way from the living room and into - is this Marvin’s bedroom?

Jackie startles at his movement and looks up. His eyes widen with relief, a huge smile growing on his face.

“If I may,” signs Jameson, shimmying out of Marvin’s grasp. “What the hell is happen - ”

Jackie tackles him into a hug, squishing him so tight Jameson has to resort to shrill whistling to dislodge him. Jackie’s laughing and crying and squeezing his arms through his shirt, knocking their heads together once or twice, delighted.

“Cor blimey!” cries Jamie, managing to push him back slightly. “You’re like one of those enormous dogs excited to see you when you get home! Absolute terror, you know that?”

“Sorry!” laughs Jackie, pushing him playfully, squeezing at his hands, slamming their foreheads together again. “I was just worried, I was just worried!”

“Worried? Goodness, Jackie, you act like I’ve been unconscious for weeks.”

Jackie pulls him in for another hug, holding him tight enough that he can hear his heartbeat. A soft movement beneath him makes him look down, and, oh, thank God, a second pair of warm blue eyes, a second little brother, awake, alive -

Without ever breaking their hug, Jackie slams Jamie back down onto the bed, a loud, jolly laugh bursting up from his gut, and he squeezes both Marv and Jameson into hugs, eliciting protests loud enough to summon both Henrik and Chase, dashing in from the living room, smiling wide to see their brothers awake again.

“You’re okay!” cries Jackie, gripping them both close. “You’re going to put me out of a job if you keep playing hero like that, you tiny assholes! Fuck, I thought you idiots had really hurt yourselves, don’t do that again! Holy shit, you should have seen the way Jamie’s color came flooding back, I hate magic, I’m so glad you’re okay…”

Henrik and Chase are laughing in the doorway. Resigning themselves to being squished, Jamie and Marv exchanged rolled eyes above his chest and then begin to laugh too, reaching out to find each other’s hands and clutching tight. Jameson’s eyes are warm with gratitude and pride, and Marvin’s heart swells full of light, strong enough to wake him fully at last.

“Thank you,” signs Jameson’s free hand.

“Course,” says Marvin. He smiles at Jamie, then at Henrik, and then at Chase, who almost falters beneath the weight of his affection. Marvin draws back from Jackie and shoves their foreheads together, humming something warm and familiar, steady as a heartbeat and bright with joy.

“You’re worth it,” he adds, breathing in deep the smell of sleep and health and brotherhood. “We’re okay.”

[ohitsjustfee]

This one’s for the ~ladies~

If you’re a woman and you found my Instagram from your man looking at me I wish to extend my understanding of the pain it caused you, along with an apology. There were two phrases that scarred me in my youth:

Behind every beautiful woman is a man tired of fucking her.”-Unknown &

“Men are only as faithful as their options” -Chris Rock (God bless his ex-wife.)

I don’t mean to make a generalization, but as a woman I have noticed through my perception (and the candor of my female friends) that when we watch porn (if we even do) we have this subjective way of removing ourselves from the porn itself. A lot of us think “Woo! Look at them go! I’d love to try that position! Yeah!” After which a lot of us immediately switch our focus back to general life stuff.

I’m sure there’s some women that look at the naked male form and think “Mmm yeah, I want to fuck him. I wish my husband’s dick was that size.” Sadly, for the most part we just enjoy the context and setup of pornography and how it could be applied to our individual imaginations. I don’t know many women who can get off to a picture of a man. This difference in wiring can cause us heavy confusion.

Trans YouTuber Natalie Wynn who came to earth when Einstein nutted a load into Mozart’s bussy, and was shat out while Mozart received a rusty trombone from Vincent Van Gogh, has some great insight into this. The trans community in general really sheds some insight into this schism. When she was still in a male body with male hormones she was able to be aroused simply from a picture. Deep into her transition she realized that estrogen therapy altered the way she became aroused. For Natalie, now it is more about the connection and context of her crush, and she needn’t orgasm to enjoy sex.

Alright, so we have two notes from this for straight men to take:

We don’t need to orgasm in order to enjoy intimacy. For the love of god stop pounding away until we’re raw because you won’t feel like a man unless we affirm you with theatrics and rhythmic kegals. Sometimes we just like being close to you, all cuddly up inside and stuff.

Women don’t tend to get visually aroused to the extent that men can. This is why you will often hear women complain about “dick pics.”

Most women, if they’re over 25 at least, have reached this conclusion on their own. So here marches in the harsh reality that men are biologically wired to want to fuck a variety of women, and so when they look at imagery of women on Instagram they are very likely fantasizing about bending her over. Or perhaps they fantasize about having their heads squished between the woman’s thick, strong, meaty thighs. I don’t kink shame. Either way, they want them. Sincerely. In real life. And they would.

We see our men hastily try to close the browser window of some scantly clad Instagram chick, and GOD DOES IT FUCKING HURT, but if you admit it hurts you are coined as irrational or expecting too much, which isn’t far off considering the harsh reality that we discussed earlier.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt like hell for a lot of us, so what do we do with that? Get angry? Irrational. Cry? Have a go at it, but you’re still being unrealistic. Bottle it up inside and let it slowly chip away at our feelings of self worth like some sort of Chinese water torture? Yeah. I guess that will do.

Ladies, I’m an IG thot and I’m sorry. Take solice in the fact that I have a network of IG thots that I speak to and we tend to talk about how much we’re hurt by our partner’s proclivities. As hypocritical as that might be, I’ll throw myself under the bus to make you feel better.

The pain of knowing your men fantasize about humping random IG strangers is like a dagger in the heart. Understand that I’m an IG thot who has felt that very dagger and seen the room spin on several occasions. Let me recruit my ex boyfriend Christopher for this discussion. I’ve caught him jacking off to my friend’s pictures more times than I can recall. (Seriously. Their Facebook pictures. When real porn exists, and is free.)

Christopher: “I mean... it’s just that we need variety. We’re wired to like variety. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you. It’s just like if I were to eat steak every night. I’d get sick of it, wouldn’t you?”

Myself: “God, that doesn’t help at all. Now I feel even more like a boring and disposable piece of meat.”

Christopher: “Well, think of it this way. We may fantasize about fucking them, but we don’t fantasize about going grocery shopping with them.”

So, there you have it. That’s about as much comfort as I can personally squeeze out of this blog. I should make a disclaimer that #notallmen and #notallwomen have these drastically opposed wirings that lead to heart ache. I hate painting with broad strokes. But, you must admit, enough of us feel this way that it justifies the existence of this blog post.

Your body is fine. Your body is fine. Your body is fine. Your man is just still wired to spread his seed. There’s nothing wrong with you. He isn’t fantasizing about taking the woman to Target, at least, remember? If you were a half naked Instagrammer with a following you’d still have to deal with this pain because of BiOLoGY. Remind yourself of that the next time you see a “Hot Girl™” on your man’s device.

Your body is fine. Your body is fine. Your body is fine.

Rocking back and forth hugging my knees in the shower

MY BODY IS FINE. MY BODY IS FINE. MY BODY IS FINE.

[ikesenhell]

The Unknown

Again., Chapter 13–a collaboration by myself and @a-shout-to-the-void​ AKA Vaya. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here, and Vaya’s here. NOTES: None this time.

It took a couple favors to pull together the gift. Mercifully, Shingen didn't ask. He’d heard. Slowly, Kenshin filed all of the clippings and pictures and minutiae in a small folder and tucked it under his arm, donning his best black suit for the funeral. He also brought a small satchel of baby things--a sort of christening gift for a child he’d heard about and hadn’t met.

He’d been in their shoes. He knew how well it hurt.

The funeral was brief and well-attended. Flowers littered the casket. Well-wishers pulled together in a quiet line to give the grieving couple their condolences. The baby (scarcely a month old, by the looks of him) started fussing. Fortunately Kenshin was next in line.

“Here,” he murmured, taking the infant from his mother. “I’ve got it.”

Williams gave him a relieved, worn smile. “Are you sure?”

“I’m certain.” He bounced the boy in his arms. “You’ve enough to worry about right now. I brought you something. What’s his name?”

Ieyasu fixed him with a baleful stare, but the baby hushed and curled against his chest.

“Mitsunari,” she murmured. “His name is Mitsunari. We’re calling him ‘Nari.”

“Nari is a good name,” Kenshin agreed, offering her the satchel. “Here. For you and your husband.”

Ieyasu took the bag with a murmured thanks, flipping it open to find a thick supply of toys, diapers, and the folder. As soon as they parsed the contents, Williams teared up and hid her face in his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Ieyasu managed through gritted teeth.

“It was nothing,” Kenshin answered. “Think nothing of it. If you need me to take Nari for now and sit behind you so you have a minute, consider it done.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“He’s fallen asleep, so I may as well.”

They didn't protest. Kenshin took up a spot behind the two and settled into an armchair, watching over the infant as he slept.

---

They spent their leave mostly looking after the ever-growing ‘Nari. He smiled like his father, big purple eyes flashing, his dark brown skin and dark hair so much like his mother that Ieyasu called him ‘Sunshine’ sometimes. When he slept, the two of them parsed through Mitsunari’s things in deathly slowness and figured out what best to do.

It was on one of those nights that she found the letters.

“Yasu?” She called, sitting at the familiar desk. “Come here. These are all addressed to us.”

Ieyasu crept into the room, brows knit. “What are?”

“Letters?”

Williams waved one at him. Sure enough, there it was, written in Mitsunari’s curving hand. Ieyasu cracked it open.

My dearest love,

You’re not paying attention to me right now, and I’m the happier for it. I know that sounds strange. It’s a little like watching a van Gogh painting in motion; like the whole of Starry Night twisted and shifted into life, the nest of your hair become the swirling stars and her body the curving grass.

I probably won’t share this with you--it’s not nearly as pretty as you both deserve. I could watch you for hours. I just might.

Sometimes now I have sympathy feelings when I watch you kiss her. Not pains. You’re kissing her neck right now. Your mouth is slightly open and your breath hitches when you ride your hips upward into hers, and I can feel the way it would drag were you on my neck instead. I wish, sometimes, that I could watch the way you looked at me when you have me where you like.

I would suggest taking a video, but I know that would embarrass you, and she’d likely say something about ‘evidence’, and I’d get terribly distracted by it anyway. Maybe part of the golden mystery is the mystery itself, though I doubt very much that I would ever grow tired of even the most quantified of your expressions.

God, I love you both.

It just struck me as I’m watching you now how your shoulders scallop and curve as you hold yourself. It’s like watching the shift of a tectonic plate--the whole world of my heart moves when you do.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

The paper cracked as Ieyasu gripped it tighter. “Are they all like this?”

“I think so,” Williams murmured, opening another. “There are hundreds of them. This is what he was up to all those nights…”

He had to set down the letter before he destroyed it in his grasp, clutching his knees instead. What was he supposed to say? How could he even speak into reality the rage and love and sorrow and desperation swelling in his chest? “How could he say this wasn’t as pretty as we deserved?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

Ieyasu clenched at the air and rose, swinging his fist at nothing. Silence greeted him. “I think I need to go for a run.”

---

Kenshin came over sometimes. Mostly it was to help around the house; having a third person was something they’d grown used to in the years gone by, and now it was more needed than ever. He helped shift furniture and watch Nari and sometimes stayed for dinner late into the night, the quiet more comforting without tears in the void.

“Does it ever stop hurting?” Ieyasu asked him one night, still spinning his fork around on the empty plate.

The other man paused. Sometimes, when he was taken just off his guard, Ieyasu could see the sorrow hanging close to the surface. He was beautiful (not just handsome, beautiful), but sad, too. Those ocean eyes held an well.

“No.” Kenshin hesitated once more. “No, it doesn’t.”

They fell quiet again. At last he pushed back his icy blonde hair and sighed. “It doesn’t hurt the same after a while. At first it feels like burning, like you’ve swallowed lava and you’re just waiting for it to settle somewhere less painful, like if you just drink enough the burning will stop. Eventually it does, but the scald of it is still there. Some nights I’ll wake up and call for her. It’s been nine years. I keep thinking I’ll stop doing it. I never do.”

“I don’t--” Ieyasu inhaled sharply. “I can’t live like that.”

“You do,” Kenshin said, simple and clear. “You will. You’ll learn. Every day you’ll wake up and wonder how you manage. Every night you go to sleep knowing you did, somehow. It hurts forever--just differently.”

---

In the blink of an eye, Nari turned two. His second birthday party was a whimsical affair, with streamers and party hats and great mylar balloons all around the apartment. Ieyasu and Williams spent the morning whirling through the place, arranging and rearranging until they were satisfied that everything was presentable. And, of course, that everything was just out of reach of the toddler.

“That should do it!” Williams moved her hands away from the end of the streamer that was now securely pinned to the wall. “How does it look?”

Ieyasu leaned against the counter, arms folded. “It’s a two year old’s birthday party. Not everything has to be perfect.”

“But is it?” She insisted with a grin.

Ieyasu rolled his eyes. “Yes. Of course it is.”

In a few quick steps her arms were around him, and she pressed a quick kiss to his jawline before bouncing away again. “You picked up the cake, right?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. “Do you want me to check the fridge for it? Might’ve run away.”

“That would be great!” She sang. “What time is it?”

He checked his watch as he popped open the fridge. “Its uh--about one-thirty. Why?”

She flew back into his line of sight. “We should probably wake up Nari around quarter to two--oh, Yasu, he’s going to love this.” He glanced at the frosted behemoth taking up an entire shelf in the fridge. He’d ordered it from a bakery a few blocks north; they did custom cakes and were almost too thrilled over the thing. Iced giraffes covered the pastry, grinning up at him with goofy expressions.

“Please explain how our son’s favorite animal became giraffes,” he grumbled, swinging the door shut. “What’s so great about giraffes?”

“I think he became obsessed after Kenshin called Shingen one,” she commented lightly. “You know. Just fixated.”

As if on cue, their doorbell rang. From upstairs came the telltale shriek of an over-excited toddler, the pitter-patter of footsteps letting them know that Nari had escaped the allegedly ‘baby proof’ bed once more. Ieyasu muttered something about lying manufacturers and headed upstairs as she went for the door.

“Well, hello!” Williams gave a mock curtsy at the door. “You’re early.”

“Hello yourself.” Kenshin stepped through the door, a coat with a thick fur trim slung around his shoulders and a bag in his hands. “You told me two. I figured you might need help. Shingen couldn’t make it, but sends his regards.”

“Shinshin!” From atop the steps came a delighted scream. Ieyasu moved the baby gate just in time for Nari to toddle down the stairs, arms outstretched. “Shinshin!”

“Goodness!” And Kenshin swept the baby up into his arms, bouncing Nari into his elbow. “And you’re getting big! How tall are you now?”

Nari puffed himself up proudly. “Big!”

“Of course you are,” Kenshin chuckled. “Soon enough you’ll be as big as me. How old are you now? Can you show me?”

The baby held up two fingers. Williams giggled and leaned into Ieyasu, watching the other man head into their kitchen. “They’ve bonded, haven’t they?”

Ieyasu studied the odd pair with a slight crease between his brows. “Yeah. They have.”

“I don’t think I mind it.” She nudged him gently. “Do you?”

Did he mind it? How could he mind the way Nari smiled when Kenshin swung him around, or the way the boy giggled whenever Kenshin asked him a question? How could he mind at all when his son was so happy—

Only a vision of his husband gave him pause. Mitsunari, holding their son in his arms. Mitsunari, cutting the cake. Mitsunari, standing with Ieyasu and Williams as they took photo after photo of their little boy having a ball.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just—I don’t know.”

[seqhy]

“Why do girls do makeup?” “Why is their makeup so thick?” “Are they not confident of themselves?” “I’ll rather choose girls who doesn’t wear makeup.” “They are f-girls and sluts.”

I have this stereotype mindset about women who wear makeups. It’s just that I saw them “maarte”, “masungit”, “high standards yet ugly” and etc. I just realized that, it is an art. Like music, poems can stand on itself but if you put harmonies in it, it’ll be a symphony in the ears of the listener. Same as a girl who doesn’t wear makeup and put makeup on its face, it adds beauty. It is a lifestyle, an aesthetic. It also covers up their inferiorities. I felt sorry to myself because I lose compassion. I lose empathy. I realized, there is always a room for beauty. There is always a room to boost confidence. Makeups are not for sluts or anyone who I should think of. It’s for everyone. It is for those who want to make themselves beautiful despite of their inside pain about their physical appearances. It makes them feel comfortable to face the world.

Women out there, remember this: your faces are Picasso’s or Van Gogh’s. Every strokes of the brush and everything you use, such beauty arises. I am sorry and I love you ladies!

[writermaxlwisdom]

Ravings of a Four O’clock Mindset

Is it so terrible of me To hope you find some sort of comfort In the words that I write?

Kill me softly Murder me in my sleep

The only reason I haven’t quit smoking yet Is because I’m hoping to die Before the world realizes I’m rancid.

At this moment My soul is more dark Yet brighter Than its ever been

Spew these words onto paper Don’t think BLEED Cut myself with a dull knife

Use the blood as ink And press DOWN HARDER!!!

I miss her But she doesn’t belong to me She belongs to the world Whereas nothing can claim me I’m too ugly inside Covered by a decent exterior

Because I am afraid Afraid the world will see See the empty darkness that follows me

So empty Like the jar of change I saved NOT A SINGLE CENT LEFT …just my death

My own presence haunts me Like a house flickering in the dark The demons inside Stabbing all who enter

BUT I AM GOOD! Just a little insane with scribbles

“Ha. Ha! HA!”

Tumbling down the alleyway Swaying with too much tequila A knife, a gun, a rope I’d hurt, but never kill myself She and father would be too sad

And I would continue to be a disappointment.

My existence is futile Who even reads my work? Who even cares to listen?

I was born with a shadow heart And a taunted mind Dark spirits attached to me since my birth How do you overcome this without… Pills.

Mother will read this And say it scared her Father will read this And ask where it came from Brother will read this And see only imperfection Sister will see this And see ME so beautifully Lover will see this And she might be frightened Ex-lover will see this And laugh at my pain But who will see this And hold me regardless

For the face I have is true I am gentle and sweet, they all say But paper and pen is revealing All that is within me The spirit that is as dark as this black ink

Because existence itself is what tortures me

Fall leaves will descend the day I die By heart I hope they burn me Put my ashes in a coffin And still bury me Because in essence I would still be there, but not present

I broke the first Pen in my incessant Babbling But why obsess over such un-profound things

If I could I’d Lock myself in an empty room with a mirror Wouldn’t shower Wouldn’t eat Wouldn’t drink Just watch my reflection as I deteriorated And found joy within every second

I’m sober Yet that’s the only high I really need Everything else is false Except truths we only say when we’re drunk

So follow me down this tunnel Emerge in a different world Where people don’t fake how they feel Vincent Van Gogh knew it

His life spent painting his heart Yet all obsess over his brush stroke HOW HE MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE GONE TOO QUICK I saw a man who viewed the world as it expressed itself

Then went insane because everyone else Was too poor to understand his vision Sale or no sale they were ignorant To his immaculate conception So without beauty to share He died

Human emotion falls beneath us Forgotten to greed, perfection, and brutality “Dot your ‘I’s’ and cross your ‘T’s’” Just be sure to drown yourself after From the pressures of coexistence With the rest of the clones around us

That’s why alone is my preference It cut open my chest Let my organs spill out Leaving it all exposed Hate is bent into those we don’t understand

Switch

I’m surrounded by them They poke and they prod me But are all who I am They are me and I them

Frightened at first But now I enjoy the torture I can write these words SCREM THEM IF I WANT!

Wait out the thickness of the rain And be still ‘till the sun burns out Smoke until the cancer consumes me So I don’t have to say sorry Within a suicide note

But alas, I think I am getting ahead of myself. STOP. -Max L. Wisdom

[angrycollectordaze-me-blog]

Paper代写：Paintings by Schiller

本篇paper代写- Paintings by Schiller讨论了席勒的绘画作品。埃贡·席勒是20世纪初期一位重要的表现主义画家，他的绘画作品最显著的特点是锐利敏感的线条表现以及有着变异和几何结构的带有压抑感的形象。席勒善于描绘非静态的人物和景物，无论是什么样的形态都像处在惊恐不安状态，恐惧与绝望的威胁交织成可怕的阴影，始终笼罩着他的作品。本篇paper代写由51due代写平台整理，供大家参考阅读。

​Lines can reveal a painter's emotions and personality, and trying to hide them is never easy. In my opinion, learning to express a certain state of mind in the form of pure lines is also an ability that a painter should have. Lines are an important language of expression in Schiller's paintings and the tool that can grasp my thoughts the most. His use of lines is as naked and merciless as his grasp of human psychology, which even makes people prickly and anxious. That is to say, this "heart-wrenching feeling" drives me to understand Schiller and the unique charm of the painting language "lines".

In several years of teaching, my understanding of the basic elements of modeling was aroused. In painting creation I've been thinking about a few questions, how to understand the basic factors of the plastic arts - point, line, face, how to connect the social environment and the artistic creation, how to seize the heart the most soft the audience a point, arouse people's strong resonance, in a sense, Schiller's paintings is a key to unlock my confusion.

Schiller's paintings are characterized by sharp and sensitive lines and depressive images with variation and geometric structure. His works are not satisfied with the aestheticism, sentimentality and mysticism of symbolic paintings, but adopt a more rugged, bold and unrestrained artistic form and creative attitude, and his works have a strong expressionist style. Schiller is good at depicting non-static characters and scenes. No matter what form they take, they seem to be in a state of panic. Fear and the threat of despair interweave into a terrible shadow that always hangs over his works.

Schiller painting with thick, concise, line is the most primitive desire, impulse, expression form the transition from the traditional to the modern western agitated, his painting shows his swooning, fears, fantasies, and cruel torture yourself, painting often drawn on a base of blank characters, sometimes only draw the contour line, and the body stretched out of shape. His cold and handsome lines are thrilling, and the heavy lines in his works emphasize the clear external contour. However, in the anxious picture, we can clearly appreciate his passion for lines and his attention to the human mental state.

Schiller did not use many horizontal lines in his works, only relatively many for a very short period of time when his emotions were relatively stable. Horizontal lines have a sense of stillness and tranquility, and can be used to divide and stabilize the picture. Although Schiller used many horizontal lines in his works in this short period, what the picture conveys is not a pure sense of tranquility, but a state of alert under emotional repression. His landscapes felt crowded, as if a mentally disturbed person had been soothed for a while and would erupt again sooner or later.

If horizontal lines become unsettling in Schiller's writing, curves are his powerful language. When the curve is further emphasized, the picture becomes a strong emotional expression. The curvilinear space represents an imaginary universe or a vortex of uneasiness. Therefore, both the painter and the audience can create a sense of unrest. When we talk about the vortex of anxiety, the first thing that comes to mind may be the post-impressionist painter van gogh. Van gogh directly influenced Schiller from the perspective of painting. Although they have different styles of expression, they have been sublimated and recognized by the audience in the naked self-presentation, which is a complete self-expression of emotion. They paint in the simplest and most individual way, not content to express what they see, and bring us into their painful hearts, using swirl and wave strokes to express the storm of their inner excitement.

The provocative human body and erotic scenes in Schiller's paintings revealed people's psychology at that time, and depicted things that people wanted to do but did not dare to do, or were severely punished and forbidden at that time, or even dared not mention in the field of moral public opinion. Let people have a kind of psychological acne was stabbed, the heart of the secret is peeping at the feeling. As lu xun said: "dare to face up to the bleak life, dare to face up to dripping blood."

For Schiller to convey these emotions, he found a suitable, powerful and thrilling expression tool -- "line". His lines are as crazy as they can be, showing human nature and unpredictable potential, releasing great artistic energy in self-expression. Schiller's lines are direct and mysterious. A line is often thought of as a continuous symbol connecting two points. Lines can actually be formed by imagination. As long as the starting and ending marks are given, and some hints are given in the middle, the imagination itself will fill in the remaining gaps. This method enables the viewer to participate in the creative process. Imaginary lines can also highlight the atmosphere and add depth. It is more common in Schiller's works to give detailed descriptions of faces and hands and omit other parts of the body. Or just pick a part of your body and paint it. In this way, it is easy to draw the audience into his works and into his emotional vortex, so that people unconsciously follow his sometimes omitted and sometimes twitching lines and enter the spiritual world of the people in the painting. "Pain and happiness" is an appropriate description of his line.

Recall that the reason why their works do not resonate with the audience, the reason why the flow of mediocrity, the reason why people can not grab the attention, at least in the line can get a little inspiration. It is an effective way to improve oneself to analyze one's paintings with rational thinking. Because art itself is a constant cycle from sensibility to rationality, and from rationality to sensibility, it is also a process of constant perception of society.

The main reason why my works fail to resonate with the audience is that I cannot get rid of the bondage and fully express my emotions. Unable to face the rational life, old illness and death of people, do not dare to face. I disguised myself as a rational person. In a sense, Schiller may be more psychologically healthy. He is brave enough to face the lunatics in mental hospitals, the nature of human naked desire, the idea of death, and the psychology of pain, convulsion, struggle and sensitivity. Perhaps it is because of this "emotional camouflage" that we do not dare to use the "line" language to the extreme, until the degradation of the language can not be used.

Paul klee famously said, "take a walk with a line." "Line", the most basic modeling language, is a language we have been using since we first came into contact with painting, but it is also the language with the strongest expression and the deepest depth. I like and appreciate the lines in Schiller's works, and I have always been guided by the lines in his works. But as an artist, we should have our own way of expression. Especially in today's many works of art full of vision, "take on a new look" is the way works of survival. While trying to perceive and absorb the excellent elements in Schiller's works, I also insist on and find my own way of expression. I pay more attention to the "nutrients" in Chinese "line drawing" and intentionally ignore the depth in western oil painting. I hope that we can all experience online performance, online performance to find their own way of expression.

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