It wasn't just the poverty.
It was the loneliness.
It was the madness.
In the quiet hours, Vincent painted not with hope, but with aching need.
He painted beds with tangled sheets, empty chairs, wilted irises. He painted fields that never ended. Stars that screamed.
"Color is how I breathe," he said once, pressing cobalt over canvas like a plea. "If I don't let it out, it suffocates me."
Rex understood now.
This wasn't a hobby or art school.
This was survival.
—
One day, Rex woke up, and Vincent wasn't painting.
He sat in silence.
His eyes were swollen, his hands trembling.
"They put me in a hospital once," he said. "I cut my ear. I don't remember all of it. They told me I was dangerous."
He looked over, the corners of his mouth twitching with a ghost of a smile.
"Is it dangerous to feel too much?"
Rex didn't know what to say.
He shook his head. "But it was never madness. It was just… too much color."
—
