Wheat Field with Crows (1890), Vincent van Gogh
As I reach the rise, I turn to take one last look back at a past that nearly consumed me.
The setting sun lends a golden hue to the wheat field, suggesting a false sense of hope that has long vanished from that place. More to the truth is the ominous presence of a black horizon, one no longer mine. Yet, while there, that blackness was no horizon, but an ever present now that nearly suffocated my very soul.
How appropriate, that a murder of crows moving towards that blackness, earnestly cawing as they sight carrion, should be mirrored by the massive clouds roiling overhead, seemingly ready to feed on that bit of my soul left behind.
True hope lies in the opposite direction. I note how the track seems ever greener the further behind it leaves that dark past, as…
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