Quit Pills

Some lady had told me I should start taking pills, and she convinced me. It was supposed to help with my anxiety, and I feel like it kinda did. So that was nice.

It also made me a lot lazier, which was also pleasant, as I had just gotten into a song called Lazybones, and this allowed me to make a painting by the same name, a practice I used to do a lot. 

This laziness also gave me a couple of new hobbies I enjoyed. For example, I started lying on the floor staring at the ceiling, flavoring my now monotonous life.

But like all things, I knew that one day it must pass, and now it has. 

After a while, I started to believe that everything had become brighter again. Sometimes, I do feel like it has. However, at least as frequently, I feel like life moves on, and nothing ever changes.

Rough Night

A ghost I met last night admitted to me their most devastating yet intimate story.

You see, most stories are lucky to be devastating OR intimate. Often, that is what makes them fascinating—a reality I don't believe I have to elaborate on.

But the ghost told me a more intimate AND devastating story than any you will hear otherwise.

Don't get me wrong, this was a heavily censored story, not for any reason except that I trust the ghost to have censored it themselves. Nobody, dead or alive, can admit to everything they've ever witnessed.

And like always, I'll keep it short, mostly because I fear I may have forgotten the story.

For which I give you my apologies. I owe you some good gossip, but to be fair, when was the last time you gave me some?

Wooden Statue

So I found myself in some apartment with a bunch of statues and paintings of a kind you wouldn't usually see.

Art can be cool to observe, sometimes. But I needed to be in the mood, and there were 2 girls and an aged man, making it harder to get in that state of mind.

Of course, I tried -- because pictures don't compare to seeing a piece right in front of you, which allows viewing it from afar, up close, and all kinds of angles.

Then my eye landed on this statue, seemingly made from a single piece of wood, overseeing the room. It seemed peaceful, and for a statue, that shouldn't be surprising. 

But, and I agree with this assertion, the room was too full of statues. The aged man had no room to put the others. Knowing that fact allowed me to see through the calm act the statue had put on.

This scared the statue into playing lifeless. 

And now I regret exposing it.

I wanted to paint the feeling the statue gave me. Without being able to stare at it for a little longer, this was hard to achieve.

Finger Meets Mouth

This one morning, I woke up to my girlfriend not lying beside me in our bed. This was (only) a little confusing; I had not remembered her going (back) to Brussels, but as she does often enough, I figured I was still rather sleepy.

But the sun had called the morning, so it was time to get up -- when I heard strange noises from my kitchen: there must've been a monster.

And like a normal person, I weighed my options: escaping from my apartment to avoid a conflict or protecting my belongings from the demon.

When I finally, after a good half hour or so, mustered up the courage, all I found was my cute girlfriend.

She had awoken to an insatiable desire and had just cleaned our kitchen of anything palatable. So when she noticed me, she leaped to me, took my finger in her mouth, and well -- the rest I'll leave up to your imagination.

Double booked

Nothing about this story, even this sentence, actually happened, and neither is realistic. If anything in it sounds plausible -- you might not be real either.

So there's this couple who went on a trip to Ghent in Belgium, for which they had booked a hotel far in advance.

They had to walk to the hotel, which took about an hour. When they finally arrived, the receptionist apologetically explained: "I'm so sorry, but your room was double-booked." They were supposed to have gotten an email about it but hadn't.

Defeated, they went outside, sat down, and stared at the skeleton of an ancient town full of tourists like themselves.

They had to decide what to do but could not find other hotels. So, instead of making a hard choice, they sat still and stared. 

A couple of hours later, the receptionist asked them to move, but they did not respond, not out of rudeness but because they had lost the ability to do so.

They sat there for 12 years, slowly losing themselves further and further into the city until they disappeared. 

A Live House

I have a couple of critical questions for you. Please don't move on until you've answered them to yourself. 

When was the last time you genuinely thanked someone? I don't do it often enough—it's nice to be appreciated.

Well, you might've been able to answer that one, but when's the last time you genuinely thanked the stuff you own or the house you live in?

I never would, as I didn't believe they could appreciate the gesture, but I met a man with a story who changed my perspective. As I've already wasted your time with my exhausting questions, I'll keep his story short.

The man had lived in this house for the better part of his adult life, never batting an eye (as he assumed he was merely losing his mind), but slowly and more frequently, he heard the house starting to move, talk, and more worryingly: complain.

One time, when he came back from watching grass, the house was alive and well: the lights were on, music was playing, and the chimney was blowing large clouds.

And that's all he could figure out, as he was no longer allowed inside.

The waitress

Have you ever woken up unable to hear, smell, talk, or see well? I'd be more surprised if you've never. But what is rare is waking up with only one of those working.

I wouldn't be surprised if you don't believe me when I say that I woke up one day, and everyone I interacted with could only use one.

I could only see, and my girlfriend could only speak (which honestly doesn't seem far off the norm anyway.) 

This happened to our great annoyance while we were on a trip to Belgium. 

So, my girlfriend noticed a cute Thai restaurant, which made her very happy because she wanted to impress me by ordering her food in Thai.

The waitress came, and she could only see. My girlfriend enthusiastically ordered in Thai. I could never be sure, but she seemed to order the entire menu, telling many stories while the waitress patiently looked. 

I haven't the heart to tell her, but the waitress didn't understand any of it; she was from the Philippines (and could not hear anyway.)

Art about the Sint Jan cathedral in Den Bosch ('s-Hertogenbosch)

Sint Jan

The Netherlands is a small country, which allows me to say that I live in a big city about the small city I live in.

If I wanted to.

In this big/small city, there's a famous ancient building called the Sint Jan. I've had memories of it for as long as I can remember. Because of my disinterest, I still don't understand much about the building. Still, I used to not understand anything, only knowing it was beautiful.

Even though the building looks grand, being inside makes it seem even taller. If I didn't know any better (and I definitely don't), I'd assume it was. 

Someone should measure someday.

The building somewhat scares me, which is hard to explain: to me, it doesn't seem to be decorated; it's elegant, though everyone keeps talking about its impressive statues & decorations.

This is annoying because I have to pretend I see them as well, meaning I have to figure out pretentious ways to express my appreciation. It's scary because the building is supposed to be some kind of holy. 

I guess I'm going to hell.

Weird Girl

I'm one of those people with weird parents; when people look at me, I feel them (annoyingly, correctly) assume so.

But they're the good kind of weird, I promise. Their friends, the few they had, often turned out to be the bad kind. Many weird people are; the weirdness starts as fun, but when further explored, it quietly becomes evident that they're kinda dysfunctional. Weird people are somewhat of a gamble.

A lot of normal people, the older they get, see themself become more and more like their parents. Well, let me tell you, as a weird guy, this is also true for us. 

Like my parents, I prefer having few friends, and the ones I choose to spend time with are primarily weird. 

If you don't end up like your parents, you'll end up pretending to be their opposite. Hopefully, convincingly enough to one day trick yourself into forgetting it was an act.

Anyway, so this painting is about my new best friend, who's rather weird.

Now I get most people might call a lot of otherwise normal people weird because of a few things they do out-of-the-ordinary -- that's not the case here.

Are you wondering what makes her weird? I get that, but that's not what this painting is about.

Stolen Ice Cream

There's this girl who keeps showing up at my apartment. I'm not sure how she does it, but she keeps convincing me to let her in; she practically lives here now.

And some time ago, she convinced me to go to a theme park with her.

Which might not sound crazy to you -- but I hate theme parks. Maybe hate is a strong word, but I can entertain myself very well, so I would never choose to spend the money. 

But again, somehow, she figured out a way to manipulate me. When we arrived, I felt stupid as I feared every attraction. And you can guess it; she convinced me to join her in taking the rides anyway.

I don't know what it is.

After we finished the whole park, she asked if I wanted to get some ice cream. Nausously, I told her I was watching my weight but that she could get some herself.

So she got some ice cream. 

But she didn't even touch it much: she force-fed me until most of it was gone. Then she told me she was too full to finish the rest and that I had to finish it.

And so I did -- all she said she wanted was one last spoonful, with which she scooped all the ice cream until the only thing I had left was confusion about how I got into this situation in the first place.

Wish I learned something from this situation.

Drunk lady

How often do you act like you're a good person? This painting is about a day I did twice, or at least as far as I can remember, which I probably would as I generally remember any time I do something good for somebody (because I'm not a good person.)

The first good thing was picking up my girlfriend from the train station to walk home together (She thinks I do it for her, but I only do it because I like spending time with her.)

Anyway, while we were walking back, I was trying to be romantic (to manipulate her into liking me so she'll keep helping me clean) when I slipped and stumbled.

(Which made her rudely laugh uncontrollably.)

When I tried to recover from my failure, she noticed a drunken lady who had fallen from her bike. We rushed to help her. I couldn't but help -- so that's what I did.

She must've been Thai, as they started to talk in some foreign language, presumably gossiping. And she won't admit to what they were talking about. That's what I get for (pretending to be) good. Huh.

Well dressed homeless

Waking up in a bed that isn't yours, for whatever reason, to me at least, is a little disorienting. Even if I've been doing it daily for what feels like my whole life, it never gets easier.

Though, this morning, when I awoke, I felt something special. I'm not a spiritual person at all, but the brain can make you many feelings that evoke sympathy to any religious zealot.

And because it's 'just' a feeling, there's no way to rationalize it. So I went on with my day and put on my suit. The first mirror I found, I spent an hour looking in, after another of cleaning myself first.

Looking my (regular) best, I went to my favorite work spot and sat down to start. And as usual, people walked by, disregarding my desperate pleas.

Some greet me, others smile, but none give me what I want -- which shouldn't be surprising, yet the feeling present during my first hours made me expect change -- maybe I am more spiritual than I'd like to believe.

When I felt like giving up (my hope, not the job), I saw someone who made me feel weird again. The way he walked at me made me sense this was the day I'd finally get what I deserved.

He slowly walked, seemingly to me, and when he was within touching range, he waved and gave me 500 euros.

Which made me cry like I had never before. I felt like a little boy again. He said it wasn't a problem and I should use it wisely. I responded: thanks, I guess.

As he walked away, I understood we were both more disappointed than we had been in years: because we didn't get the praise we had anticipated, he for the money they could easily miss, and me for the stunning suit I had again put on.

Learning to wait

Anticipating something good is often almost as pleasing as the thing itself. Add in uncertainties about whether you'll receive anything and what you'll receive, and you've got significant parts of most addictions described.

But if the wait is too uncertain or prolonged, it can be one of the most agonizing experiences. It's better than waiting for something nasty, but it's close. 

For some reason, my girlfriend keeps telling me I have to learn to wait for something good. Though she lives in Belgium, and we only get to see each other on the weekend and have to wait to see each other frequently, I'm not sure what exactly she means.

Challenging questions can only be interesting for so long, and after a while, I lost interest. So, instead of starting a fight with my girlfriend, I have just been practicing to wait for something good to happen. 

Something too easy for me.

To challenge myself, I'm now trying to learn to wait for nothing. I've removed everything from my apartment that could give me any distractions: my computer, paint, books, and instruments.

Now, I happily wait in my chair for nothing to happen -- until I can't anymore.

Lost in translation (2)

This painting is about a girl who, like most people, was born in a world where she didn't understand the people around her but slowly learned.

Nothing is fascinating about that. It is very intriguing, actually, just not extraordinary at all.

But then, one day, (not so) out of nowhere (after taking a magical flying machine to the other side of the world), she lost the ability to communicate.

For months, she lived confused until she met me, a long-legged man who didn't understand much -- except that she was colorful.

And I wanted to capture that as quickly as I could. To better understand it and to make sure I would never lose it.

However, without saying anything, when I showed her the painting, she left me. I'm unsure what she meant by that. Perhaps seeing herself be understood scared her away, or maybe she was just offended by my portrayal of her.

That's all.

Lost in translation (1)

While walking through the beautiful Den Bosch, I frequently wonder about all the genius ideas people that pass me by are having. They don't know me, so they'd never tell me, and if they did, there's a big chance I wouldn't get it.

It's hard to explain interesting ideas sometimes. 

I knew this genius in high school, who could've solved many of the world's problems had he been motivated to (instead of solving obscure ones).

However, whenever he tried to explain his thoughts, his words came out in a language nobody else could understand. 

Maybe you don't understand how I knew he was a genius, but sometimes you know from the moment you see somebody. Yes, he could not communicate well through language, but the beautiful way he solved problems showed me enough.

Nobody else could see it. They all called him an idiot because he could not bring his mind to words. Thinking about him still makes me sad, and the worst part? To a lesser extent, this is true for everybody.

Bruges Is Dead

What's the craziest thing you've ever done for someone close to you? I like to see myself as very rational. I've got emotions, of course, but I don't drastically act on them much.

But when my girlfriend asked me to go on a small vacation to Bruges, I couldn't help but say yes. I know—very crazy stuff.

My girlfriend is pretty crazy as well. That's why I like her as much as I do. There's one thing, however, in which she is typical; she likes tourist cities.

And Bruges, the city she took me to, is one of those. It also, for large parts, has been stuck in time, seeming to only still exist to give people the feeling of being in such an old world.

That sounds cute. But nobody lived there. The only reason (that part of) the city exists is for theater -- this made me sad.

Life means change, and the most beautiful thing about a city is seeing how the great collection of humans keeps changing everything. Eventually, it could become hard to recognize the origins, but that's life.

Disabling my lights

At some point in my life, I decided I liked drinking coffee. I don't remember when that happened, and there are many things like it. 

I also developed a hatred for ads at some point, perhaps because I don't particularly appreciate feeling like the easily manipulated sucker I am. But I know that the right ad still manages to entice me occasionally.

For example, I bought these expensive Philips Hue light bulbs. Who knows why? I barely use the features they provide. It's overkill, but controlling my lamps from an app is pleasant. I suppose.

Somehow, these expensive lights keep turning off in a way that requires the manual light switch instead of the app to turn them back on.

When I was a young boy, probably until I was 20 years old, I was scared of monsters in my parents' house. But when I moved into my apartment, where I thought no monster ever could come and which was way smaller, I stopped being scared.

It took me months to figure out what was turning off my lights. To do so, I had decided to sit in the corner of my living room, dressed as a painting, with the lights on, and to wait and see when they would turn off.

And then it happened. The door opened, and my girlfriend, who I now realize might be a monster too, came in, used the light switch to turn off my lights, and walked away again.

I couldn't believe it. I still can't.

Cutting an onion

I'm reasonably intelligent (the cleverest person I've ever been), so today, I'll grace you with a story about the most important lesson I learned. 

Here is how I learned why you should never sincerely try to help anyone with anything:

My girlfriend told me she was a horrible cook -- she worked as an au pair and told me that her host children always cried when they ate her food.

On our first date, she wanted to cook dinner together, and because I knew she was terrible, I thought I'd give her some tips. 

Well, that was a mistake. We started by cutting the vegetables we would be using in the dish. While my girlfriend listened intently, I explained easy ways to cut them.

I felt exemplary & clever, like the genius I am, until she started laughing maniacally, like some weird cartoon villain. For some reason, she only pretended to be a poor cook but had trained for years.

Not only did this make me feel like one of the dumbest people on the earth, but now I struggled to trust anyone else.

And that's how I learned why you should never trust or help anyone, even yourself.

Living in garbage

If you're at home right now, I want you to do something for me (if you aren't, you might try as well); look around you, and what do you see? I'm trying to understand if the stuff around you is useful. Or does it just sit there without any acknowledgment?

Because of laziness or perceived meaning, if you've owned something for long enough, it becomes nearly impossible to throw away. But I know better: it's garbage if I haven't and won't use it in ages.

My parents (but my mom especially) have large amounts of garbage. It's so bad they have rooms dedicated to all of it.

My mom has invented whole systems for organizing her garbage so that she can keep them more efficiently. For a lot of it, their only usage is getting re-organized.

That's one way to keep them useful.

But I think that's a waste of time. Instead of inventing these systems, I use the time to make more garbage. A big part of my life is committed to making this garbage that I barely look at. It's even all over my walls.

It's so bad that I've convinced myself that making said garbage is the meaning of (my) life. At least it's better than not having any meaning, woohoo.

Frustrated psychologist

Being in a, at worst near constant & and at best frequent, state of anxiety is just a hobby of mine.

But due to circumstances I'm too ashamed to admit, my family and girlfriend hosted an intervention, ugh, consistently ruining my fun.

So, a while ago, I started going to therapy. I guess to learn how to relieve some of that anxiety -- but I'm not an optimist, so understanding myself better is a more realistic goal.

The fact I don't understand myself much sometimes makes me worry that I can't communicate my feelings very well.

Occasionally, I'm nervous that my psychologist will get frustrated with me as I'm unclear about what's in my mind (because I don't know). And periodically, I'm anxious that her frustration could make her scream at me. 

I've decided to act like nothing is wrong anymore: the best way to solve all my problems.

To take a picture

For those who don't know, there's a small & magical city called Efteling in the Netherlands. It's mostly for children -- when you get old enough, all that mystical stuff is much less endearing.

So my girlfriend, who's slightly childish sometimes (and an alien, so unfamiliar with the city,) wanted to visit to see what all the fuzz was about.

I enjoy the idea of spending time with her, so I did to validate that imagination: we went and had a lot of fun. 

She wanted me to go on all these supernatural rides that made me incredibly nauseous; I did anyway to make her happy, but because I complained about my nausea, she called me a loser.

Very rude & annoying, though I wouldn't expect anything else from someone I like enough to spend time with. 

She likes to take pictures. It always makes me very happy seeing her focus on getting a good shot, much happier than seeing the perspectives she's capturing themselves.

At one point, she asked if I wanted to get coffee (and then, of course, bought a muffin & hot chocolate for herself as well), and when we were sitting, she made a picture.

I wanted to capture her taking that picture, but was too late. I asked her to take another one so I could still. Nothing about her picture, mine, or this painting portrays much reality. It's all staged or interpreted, but everyone likes living in fairy tales. So it's okay.

Some people are born wise, and you're probably not one of them. Though maybe, if you're lucky, you've met or even known someone who was. 

These kinds of people seem to come out of the womb with knowledge from outside, which is easy to understand but hard to figure out while being more truthful than anything others ever think of.

My toddler nephew sometimes seems to be like that. I'm not sure if he's genius or even intelligent, and he may lose his wisdom with age, but for now, the guy seems to speak truth into life.

While playing in the backyard, we talked about life a little bit -- like young men sometimes do -- I asked him a question that wasn't important enough to remember.

But I could never forget his answer: "Ja!" He loudly exclaimed, which helped me make sense of so much of what once had seemed unrelated.

Then he put his toy car in an impossibly tall tree and asked me to add another vehicle. But I was too busy thinking to play around, and before I knew it, he also had grown too old to play. What a shame.

It's okay sweetie

Normal people are scary for the same reasons monsters are: because they don't exist. When someone is strange, it will feel like at least you know what's wrong with them, instead of the fake normal ones for whom you'll have to figure it out.

Anyway, these scary people like going on vacations, yuck. Staying home is easy and great. I've felt more love while looking at the same old bland buildings than I have while looking at great world wonders.

But when my parents (some of the weirdest people I know) rented a small house in Delft and asked if I wanted to stay with them for a few days, (I'm trying to work on my anxiety -- part of the reason why I love home so much), I did something radical and said yes.

It was nice seeing them for longer than I had been (it's hard to see people you don't live with.) And, ever since becoming an adult, playing with my toddler nephew is the most fun I'm still allowed to have.

Though cute that he is, he's also a real troublemaker, so there wasn't a night where he didn't wake everyone up by screaming.

There must have been (fake) monsters in his dreams. Fair enough, they are scary sometimes, but even more frightening than that should be the real ones in his life. 

He'll understand that someday. Then he'll wish to return to the ones in his dreams, but it'll be too late, not that he ever really could.

Far from home

This Thai lady is lying on my couch -- don't worry about how she got there; it's a story I'll reveal some other time. 

I had told her she would look great as a painting, which she struggled to believe, only making her more beautiful.

She allowed me to sketch her anyway, and because I didn't know when I'd get such an opportunity again, I took full advantage, stealing her soul and capturing it on my canvas.

Well, that was probably my biggest mistake ever.

Don't get me wrong, the painting is excellent, but now I have this soulless body in my apartment who's NOT pleased with me.

Apparently, stealing one's soul is frowned upon -- maybe THAT is something they should teach you in school (though perhaps they did, and I wasn't paying attention.)

I would appreciate any ideas about rectifying this situation without destroying my painting or upsetting her more than she already is. I like her a lot, and I'm not ready to depart from my painting yet.

From the floor

Somehow, this girl found her way into my museum. She won't leave, and I frankly don't want her to.

(I do know how she got in; I let her. But still, it's surprising she's here. In the same way, it feels weird when you switch a job or something.)

Because of me, we fell on the floor while we were playing (building this Lego set she had bought, using me as an excuse to get it "as a gift.")

A mistake I can't believe I made, which I don't regret as much as I should -- I hadn't been making enough errors before she appeared, so her allowing me to make more is appreciated.

When I looked up, I noticed something I had neglected for a long time: the ceiling, which, at that moment, looked like an abstract masterpiece. 

Seeing my room from this new, yet oh-so-common, perspective made me realize what I already knew -- that it's too easy to just sit in a chair.

(artist) screaming into void

The biggest problem with cliches is how good they are, yet how unoriginal it feels to use them.

Maybe being unoriginal shouldn't matter much -- maybe most cliches were created as other cliches dressed up in a fancy enough coat to make everyone forget their nature.

Even what I wrote before seems cliche, but hopefully, my dressing will be tasty enough for you to be saturated. If not, well, I'm not sorry. You've got enough time to waste a minute on something I wrote.

Anyway, I'll keep this one short so that you won't have to feel bad if my pretentiousness isn't able to impress.

The working title of this painting was 'A real artist happily screams into the void,' but I didn't feel like writing such a long title, so I shortened it, perhaps a little too much. 

A real artist doesn't and can't ever exist, but if there was one, I imagine they would have to be able to make art because they want to make art and be happy doing so, even if nobody else notices or cares.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Hating the gift

Lisa met Johny in a comment section for a post about a new pair of shoes that, for a couple of days, everyone seemed to talk about. 

They discussed and bonded over their shared hatred for the original poster -- who, in their opinion, wasn't cultured enough to voice their opinions.

They quickly started talking more and developed a close relationship rooted in complaining about pop culture; they fancied themselves unique.

However close they might have been, their physical distance did not help to resolve their otherwise lonely and empty existence.

Generally, most distances are reachable. Unfortunately for them, a human could not travel this route. It just was not possible.

But when Johny went to the post office to send back a recently no longer trendy sweater (he had ordered it when it was still stylish, it arrived late and now clearly wasn't,) he noticed that he could fit into the grandest allowed box.

So he shipped himself to Lisa, but the moment their eyes met, they found another shared thing they could hate -- each other.

Long legged monster

If you don't know, you may be one of them, but in this world, there are a lot of monsters. There isn't much of a problem being a monster, and if you want to be friendly, you might choose not to call them that -- what is a 'monster' anyway? But there is no need to be friendly around these parts. 

I played, learned, and grew like anyone else, with similar friends, so you might've called me normal, that's at least how we viewed each other.

Only many years into high school did we learn that not everyone has such long legs. We called the others 'monsters' back then, thinking: "What a weird existence must it be; how could they reach the tree tops or climb steep hills?"

When I turned 20 and felt like most at that age that I knew & had seen it all, I decided I wanted to explore the world that allegedly was full of weird monsters, including ones with short legs.

Then I started to learn that in those other parts, I was the monster. Even though the short-legged weirdos could use my help with many tasks otherwise performed with uncomfortable or expensive tools, they all ran away.

Due to that ostracization, what used to be my benefits became my shame, and slowly, every day, I became a little bit more like the monster I appeared as. 

Finally, only an unreachable moon accompanied my heroic journey of leisure.

Date in the wrong city

Do you ever run out of your house in a frenzy, almost late, after checking you've got everything you need, only to remember you forgot something when you're just too far not to want to go back again?

I don't date much, but I'm trying to see what more than art (& family) I can appreciate in life. Anyway, I had a date, we were supposed to meet at the train station, and when I was halfway there, I realized I had forgotten my shoes and socks.

When I arrived at the train station, I felt a million eyes on my feet (there were probably none, if not only a few.) I was on time, and when I looked at my phone, I noticed a message from my date; they had arrived and asked where to go.

In this case, straight ahead of oneself, does, in fact, take one very far, or at least far enough to where they needed to go. 

So, their question confused me. They told me we should meet at the cafe, but when I arrived it was closed, they confusedly told me it really wasn't.

As my anxiety was peaking higher than ever thought possible, I felt the world slipping, looked around for cameras to make sure I wasn't in a prank show of some kind, then got a message from my date; they had mistyped the name of Den Bosch and had accidentally gone to Den Haag instead.

So all by myself, I walked through Den Bosch on now cold feet, carrying me to the beautiful places I had seen a thousand times, thinking: maybe there is no need to explore any further than this.

Ruined food

If you've ever wanted to do anything exemplary, you'll know that that journey is filled primarily with failures. 

Those who end up with anything worthwhile may start seeing them as successes; you overcame them after all, didn't you? That's a success, right? 

Maybe so, but that's a little optimistic for my blood. So, I'll call it what you did at the time -- failures. 

There's a discomfort I get from that struggle that I hate to feel as much, if not more, than how much I love the satisfaction of success. 

And here's an observation: that struggle isn't very similar to hunger, except that they're both undesirable yet inevitable. And cooking food, which you may have to do if you get hungry enough, is one of those things you can fail at. 

Let's say you decide to experiment with your food. But while cooking, that oh-so-common uncomfortable feeling starts spreading through your veins while a worry pops up in your brain: "What if I ruin this food?"

Your hungry state of mind isn't helping to calm you down, and after cooking, you prepare yourself to eat -- it smells alright, but for some reason, you fear the worst.

You take a bite, and it's terrible. You would have almost preferably gone hungry for the rest of your life than taste that, but here you are.

While holding back the tears, you walk to your window, where you hungrily stare at the buildings. Even in all their beauty, they can't solve your hunger-filled disappointment, but you have to work your way through it, at least that is, if you still want to continue learning.

Anxious dissociation

We all know that the universe, and life in general, is bizarre. There's no way to talk about it without repeating what billions of others have thought and without sounding pretentious.

And worst of all, it doesn't seem like anything meaningful is ever actually discussed when talking about it. So I won't bother.

Anyway, so one day, while I was walking through Den Bosch, or perhaps while I was sitting at home, it doesn't matter. I was lost in thought, thinking very deeply about something simple.

But I could not wrap my mind around it, which scared me. How could something so straightforward be incomprehensible?

I felt like if even something like that didn't make sense anymore, how could anything else? I'm not sure how long I felt like this, but at some point, I continued walking through the beautiful city while sitting in my apartment, accepting that the most bizarre thing seems true -- it's all just real & normal.

State stole my bike

Unlike most Dutch people, who own 5-10 (one for each workday, perhaps a weekend, a vacation, or a birthday one, with some local regions having their own, admittedly weird habits too), I only owned one bike.

So here's the story of how I neglected her and eventually, due to that neglect, lost her at the hands of the state. 

However, this is not a story about how I miss her or advice for you on what not to do. Those feelings and that strategy are my secrets to keep.

Complaining is life's greatest pleasure, and complaining about an authority, like the state, is beautiful, but I'm not complaining here. Yes, they stole my bike, but I'm happy that they take care of the abused in this country.

That might not be true -- maybe walking is life's greatest pleasure, though I feel it's not as universally appreciated. However, what do I know? 

Anyway, I neglected her, mostly because I love walking. I'd walk everywhere instead of using her while she slowly rotted away over time due to the weather.

(Also, her tire was flat, and I didn't want to be bothered to fix it.)

Then, one day, the yellow mark of death appeared on her. Something I didn't understand and had to research, which took me a while to do, and even then, I didn't bother taking action.

I don't remember when it happened, but at some point, when I walked past where she used to be, I noticed she was gone. Only then did I fully realize the implications of the yellow mark; I would never see her again.

Caffeine High

There you are, after your fifth black coffee, feeling high & well, seriously on edge, exactly how you like it, looking at another cup standing on the coffee table in your room.

You're unsure what you're thinking about when you snap out of it and realize you don't own a coffee table. You like to live that way, lean, nothing that isn't strictly necessary.

Afraid that this is it -- you're finally losing your mind, you look outside the window and notice another room, which is mostly empty, with only a lamp, a carpet, and, of course, another window.

Nice, minimal, exactly how you like it, which calms you down enough to look back. When you do, you notice a door, which you decide to inch towards to try and reach the tableless room, but the door doesn't feel like opening right now. 

So with nothing else to do, you continue losing your mind, going in loops in your mind, again and again about how you're losing it, until finally:

You stand up from the couch in a tableless room, exclaiming: 'And that's why I stopped drinking coffee,' which you did after just starting again four weeks ago.

It seems like the whole thing was just in your mind; perhaps it was a daydream, whatever that means. For some reason, you're scared that if you had continued drinking too much coffee, you'd lose your mind, which is ridiculous, primarily because -- I think you already have.

Grandma's ring

Some memories are questionable: is it something you honestly remember, or is it a story told to you so frequently that it starts to feel like you do?

But this story is about memories that are as authentic as any other.

I remember standing in this large room with tall ceilings, a friendly home, in front of a closet. 
I wanted something from that closet, but this large, aged woman would not allow me to get it until I did something that scared me -- ask for it.
When my desire for sweets overcame that anxiety, I finally asked for and received my candy.

Recently, that memory changed a bit, but I'm still sure it's authentic.

So, instead of a closet full of candy, my grandma is handing over a ring with a red gemstone. She tells me I'll have to grow to fit into the ring as it's too large for my tiny fingers.

Even now, 19 years later, that ring is still too large, and it's unlikely for my fingers to grow. Perhaps she meant that for me to grow would mean overwinning the anxiety of having the ring be made smaller.

But she probably didn't, as I assume she was only human.

We'll never know, as not long after the memory, she died. Any day now, I'll have known the ring she gave me longer than I ever knew her.

I wore that too-large ring anyway and broke it before ever really using it, and now, in my memories, there's no candy, and she's handing over a broken ring, as it always seemed to have been.

Shadow Master

When I stand up from lying on the floor, I may engage in what was once one of my favorite activities, which has now become a challenge to entertain: going on a walk.

And if I'm lucky, the sun will shine, and I quickly may again learn why I once fell in love. Looking around will expose too many perspectives worthy of being painted than I have time to paint.

I'll walk a similar enough route to allow me to fall in love with the surroundings, yet different enough to keep me from getting bored.

One time, while standing in front of these beautifully boring buildings, I did something absurd. I'm still not sure what got into me, but while standing in the hot sun, I looked down, and you'll never believe me when I tell you what I saw -- my shadow. 

But it wasn't just my shadow. Instead of the shadow following me, I felt like I was following my shadow. Devastated by this realization, but knowing I had no choice, I walked the route I was supposed to walk, getting inspired by the perspectives that were supposed to inspire me while thinking about who was leading who.

Lazybones

Looking up from the floor is a mesmerizing perspective. You get to witness this part of the room that you frequently see but rarely pay attention to.

The otherwise unappealing sight has recently become a big part of my entertainment. Once in a while, I lay there for half an hour or so, often at least once a day.

And I could not tell you what I did while laying there -- though, of course, I know because there isn't anything to do.

I've become the laziest person on earth, hopefully having my recent medication to blame. Because the alternative is something I don't think I can accept currently.

Even making my art is something I have to force myself to do, but maybe this has always been more true than I'd like to think now.

At least I'm a little less anxious, and social interactions are less dreadful.

Dreams create desire

What's the most intense desire you've ever experienced? And what caused it?

I often experience the most intense desire after absurd dreams, which I barely remember. Some flashes, if lucky, but the desire they inflict can persist for a week easily.

And it always feels weird. In a way, it's not even necessarily easily identifiably linked to the dream, just a lust for a friend, a partner, fame, money, or whatever else you can imagine. 

If you'd ask me, I'd say that I don't generally want these (kinds of) things, but still, apparently, dreaming about having them makes me, in some way, crave them;

That begs the question: are these not just passions that I otherwise try to hide from myself? What's the point in wanting something you "can't" have anyway?

Endless hair

If you're struggling with your hair, I've got some tips. I'm qualified because I've got the longest and most beautiful hair in my city (being selectively blind.)

My hair is actually endlessly long. 

It started because whenever I came back from the barber, I wasn't happier with how I looked, so I stopped having it get cut --  and it grew.

I wasn't concerned with how long it got until one weekend someone pulled on the end of my hair, and when I turned around, I couldn't see them, so I spent the rest of the weekend trying to find the person, but I could not, because I could not find the end of my hair, as it doesn't exist. 

I guess that upset me enough that I forgot all about the tips I had. But here's one that is helpful: don't let it get this far.

Eggs

When's the last time you've thought about breathing, or how to walk, or any of the hundreds of household items you've seen every day since basically the start of your life?

Well, I hadn't thought about eggs -- chicken eggs specifically, in a while. It fluctuates, though generally, eggs are, and have been, a big part of my diet. They're pretty good. 

One day, during easter, while talking with my almost 2-year-old nephew, he pointed at an egg and accurately said: 'egg,' which I agreed to -- then I understood that I had to make art about eggs. 

Because even though their competition is fierce, eggs have some of the best marketability out there in terms of appearance.

Helping start a car

Imagine all the people you walk past you don't hear because of your headphones, a task only challenging for those who don't use them (much), but please try.

For me, they're not a tool for isolation, however, it's a nice additional perk. Still, when I hear a stranger asking for attention, I anxiously give it to them.

This one time, a guy in his 'parked' car at the side of a street in Den Bosch told me that because the car hadn't moved in months, the battery died, and he asked me if I could help push start it.

I didn't have anything better to do, so skeptically, I helped him. Together, we revived the car, and while honking, he drove away.

Another person that I'll likely never come across, and even if I did, I wouldn't hear or see.

Few clouds

I get tired of making art about my sisters, but when making art about the sky, it's too easy to inject them into whatever other narrative I'm working on.

Sometimes, I merely want to look at the sky and appreciate its beauty -- so there's no meaning here. If you're looking for it, please move on. 

A sky full of clouds is often as impressive as an empty one: not very. 

Preferably, around 20% of the sky is clouded, but the perspective may be captivating as long as 20% of the blue sky is noticeable.

And while looking at such a sky, I feel at ease with life. I'm not sure whether I'm still anxious. Probably, but it's not the type of thing I remember. I am sure I  feel like I'm floating along the clouds, and I'm inconsequentially small and irrelevant, which I actually am, of course, but now that realization comforts me.

Waiting for the call

I feel anxious about whether I'm actually anxious or not, and I'm not even sure about the authenticity of that feeling.

I've always experienced anxiety, but the feeling used to be predictable. Recently (it's already been more than half a year), it has become part of my regular experience -- making art about being hungry might have me feeling off.

It took me a while to talk to my GP. It took us longer to figure out it probably wasn't physical, which led to me getting referred to a mental health clinic, which is taking even longer to call back.

They told me I'd be on the waiting list for 72 days. When I had waited those days, and they hadn't called me, I assumed they didn't count weekends and vacations. When even accounting for that, the days had passed without a call; I became anxious about whether I did something wrong. 

I know I should call them to confirm, but I'm sure I've become very fond of waiting for the call. Maybe I am actually anxious, but it's just another hobby to fill my empty time.

On being Zen

Depending on who reads this, you may not know I'm Zen. I've always been and will be for the rest of (my) time. That isn't a comment on my state of mind, which often is either quite Zen or the exact opposite; 

It's part of the first names my parents gave me.

I'm not sure if I've ever hated it, but I've grown to like it a lot. Who doesn't like being unique in something? Even though it's not something I've had to put any effort into, it still feels good.

It's not always clear to me what it means to be Zen. Actually, it's only rare that it's not, but even then, I'm always sure I'm more authentically Zen than most gurus who might claim they are. 

Not that it matters.

Art my parents hate

The title of this art piece is a lie, but it's more accurate than most real stories you love, which are either filled with falsities or cherry-picked -- this is what you want.

So, the title of this art piece is the truth.

My mom (in friendly words) keeps telling me about how she doesn't like my recent poems. What she means, and where she is correct, is that they are not great at communicating my ideas. 

It's the same reason I struggle to read poetry; it just doesn't resonate. But still, I'll keep creating poems that I likely wouldn't enjoy had I not made them.

Until I find a way to change them, and by then, she'll have forgotten that she was a big reason behind the change. 

My dad doesn't even hate my poems; he doesn't care for them at all. They mean nothing to him.

Success wouldn't mean making my mom, who studied the English language at some university, like my poems. I'm sure I could make her care. 

No, real success means making even my father, who surely influenced my indifference to language, care.

Always changing house

I've only ever lived in three buildings. The first one, because of me, we had to leave within the first year of my existence, and the second one I spent most of my life in, about 21 years. 

And that one building was many more houses than most people live in during their entire lives, to my great annoyance. And probably to my parents their great annoyance too; I don't believe they had much control.

Anytime I woke up, I had to relearn the layout -- I often had to clear out the dishwasher, and there wasn't a day where I didn't need to ask where something needed to go (and they'd always complain about having to explain the 'logical' layout).

I remember one early morning waking up and still finding my mom moving closets in the living room. I told my dad she was up early, and he replied that she hadn't slept yet, which probably indicated a stressful period, but I was too young to understand.

The weirdest part is that somehow, my apartment seems to be struggling with similar issues, though suspiciously now, I do always know where everything is.

Innate hero complex

I'm talking to an art collector and explaining my art in a museum. I keep saying these cool-sounding, fascinating sentences. Any question they ask me, I somehow know the perfect response to -- they're amazed by my cleverness.

I turn the corner, and an ordinary (for Den bosch) yet beautiful building that I've looked at a thousand times before but for the first time see appears and slips me out of any other thought I might've had, in this case, what I think is a daydream.

I don't KNOW if it's a daydream, but unlike other thoughts, in all of them, I'm in scenarios where I'm a hero of some kind. It's hard to talk about because it's embarrassing and not something you remember. 

So I'll let your imagination fill in the blanks; it's either grandiose fantasies, what I should say to my colleagues or family when I see them again, or what I should've said in the past.

Hustling hobo's courage

Den Bosch doesn't have much of a homelessness problem. They exist, and some are consistently on specific corners to beg, but most of those aren't even homeless.

I love walking, and the city is a beautiful place to explore (though the same buildings can only amaze so many times.) Although it's a little bit away, many of my walks include it.

This one guy has asked me many times to either give him some money or to help him buy weed from a coffeeshop (though I'm not (anymore), probably because I look like the type of guy to smoke.)

Another time, I saw two of them stand on top of one another to climb over the (open) fence of the Sint-jan. They asked if I could lend them a hand; I couldn't've acted more ignorant of the situation. 

But whatever you think of them, and I don't personally care to demean or belittle them, their courage to interact with people who want little to do with them is commendable. 

However much they are outcasts, in many ways, they're more socially inclined than at least me and probably numerous others.

Slave to impulses

Whenever I've got any semblance of a good idea, which often is just something to complain about, I've got a tendency to express it multiple times in a short period. 

So, this is just another piece complaining about being hungry but then disguised by something more abstract to not bore you or me with a stale story (and to appear more intelligent).

Impulses drive everything you've ever done and ever will do. Which I don't think is much of a problem most of the time, but some of those impulses will be for things you know you shouldn't do. 

You may give in, suffering the consequences you knew would exist, then later complain about those, or you can, and will often, not.

Maybe you'll try very hard never to submit, you'll get none of the drawbacks and none of the dopamine, and now you're bored; is this even a life worth living?

And once again, you'll go back to a hedonistic lifestyle that'll at least keep you entertained while you're capable of it: this is happiness.

Seeing yourself waiting

The topic of this art piece is a boring situation. Few people get excited by having to wait. I certainly don't care much for it, but I'll try to convince you why you should.

If you're waiting and look around, you will notice something interesting, at least if you allow yourself to be entertained by the otherwise unremarkable.

This piece specifically was about waiting for the train. Nowadays, I don't take the train often, but I recently wanted to go to the office, so I had to. 

Next to the countless people, which already makes paid attention worth it (nothing else to spend it on either), I also noticed an old lady carrying four bikes, the bluest tomatoes, rain without clouds, a dog walking his human, and a flying train, all just within the one trip.

But the most intriguing thing I've ever noticed was myself on a different platform. As you may expect, I was waiting, and to my concern, I looked bored, like I wished I would be anywhere else (but I couldn't). Seeing myself in that state made me incredibly disappointed.

Hunger

If you analyze my life (and are a little weird), it could appear like, since the age of 14, I keep gaining weight, just so that I can lose it again, so that I can gain it again, on repeat. 

Since moving out, I had to relearn how to feed myself, including, for some reason, that you can't keep food in the fridge for that long and that I can't handle having snacks around as I'll never stop eating them.

Recently, I've been trying to lose weight again. Even when I eat whatever I want, I'm always hungry, so it's rough.

Unrelated, I've also been trying to get better at selling my art, which is difficult because when I'm free from my job, I don't want to spend it on another instead of working on my art. 

In that sense, ironically, because I'm not "hungry" enough, it's hard to get better at selling my art, though this is as much a privilege.

But some days, I daydream about my hunger for food overtaking my ability to reason so that I'll start eating my art. I'm sure that'll make it sell.

Boy in skirt

Vaguely, I remember a boy in a skirt at one point, lying on a couch, sleeping, sucking his thumb. I don't and can't know if it's true, but lying there, he looks so unbothered by it all, just living his life exactly how he wants, at least as far as a child can do whatever he wants.

My parents try to make me believe that I used to be that boy, but I know that can't be true. I've never been so chill, not even while I'm sleeping, or at least it's hard to imagine.

I also couldn't imagine wanting to wear a skirt, but my parents tell me it's true. There's really no issue here. I don't want to wear skirts anymore, if I did, I would. 

Except that I'm scared that they took that decision from me and that I wouldn't want to, even if I tried, and if I did want to, I wouldn't do it.

But it's easier to not think about it and to do what I enjoy. It's not like I'm that normal anyway.

Locked out

Then I arrived "home" without even a keyfob in my possession. They took that away from me, too. I should've just rang the doorbell of one of my neighbors.

It took about an hour for another resident to walk by, and from the moment I noticed them, I somehow sensed they would be using a different door. Instead of following them, I decided I'd rather wait some more.

Only thirty minutes later, someone from the correct door arrived. I mustered up the courage to follow them, and when they were about to open the door, their keyfob didn't work -- the door, not my keyfob, was broken this whole time. 

We exchanged some quick words, but I couldn't handle the internal awkwardness and decided to move to the other door.

Nobody else would arrive for two hours, so I finally rang a doorbell. When I pulled the front door, I noticed that someone had put a screw in the door so anyone could open it. Who knows for how long this had been the case?

Of course, I learned a lot from the situation -- mainly that I should buy a ladder so I could climb onto the first floor when necessary.

The keymaker

The apartment building I moved to has an electronic lock that needs a keyfob to open. I only received one, a fact that irritated me the day I moved in, but the rent is cheap, so it's hard to complain.

One day, when I came home from a walk, the front door didn't open anymore, so I went to another that didn't open either. 

I've never felt so vulnerable. Of course, I assumed that my keyfob was the problem, and anxiously I called a keymaker to replace it, who told me I had to come over, which I did.

Surrounded by many large keys, the keymaker skeptically asked me what was in front of my apartment building. I assumed to figure out whether I lived there, and nervously, I thought and, after a minute, crying, I said I didn't know.

The keymaker, now confused, asked me why I was crying, to which I again responded I didn't know before the keymaker told me they ordered my key and I could go. So humiliated, I walked back home to a locked apartment complex.

Happily walking my life away

There are many ways you can travel to most locations you need to go, and there's only one almost universal: walking.

Even though that's an intriguing idea, it doesn't influence my love for the transportation method much.

Frankly, I struggle to understand why I love it so much -- I'm Dutch, so maybe it's because biking is just too prevalent, making walking another way to feel unique. 

My parents think I'm crazy. They also think it's weird that I don't repair my bike or get a driver's license. But I'm content with walking -- toward public transit if necessary.

Walking seems to suit me. I don't move or go outside enough, or rather, I wouldn't if it weren't for walking. There's also so much time in our lives, and a lot of it we waste on dopamine machines; walking is an alright alternative to that.

And finally (and this is a secret), it's how I find all the ideas for my art. I'm not sure who leaves them there, but throughout the city (and surrounding area), someone ditches all these great, free ideas I pick up, which nobody else ever seems to. Maybe they're all too busy to look around.

Finding meaning in anything

Only once was I ever depressed. 

My parents never recruited me into a religion, nor did they push me away absolutely, though probably more than they realize.

They convinced me that there weren't any spiritual omniscient beings and that the idea was ridiculous, the latter coming naturally; if you're sure it's nonsense, the concept quickly becomes laughable. 

It's hard not to look down on people who you ""know"" believe in silly creatures, and I wasn't above it either. Even now, while I cognitively recognize we can't know, and much of the conclusion is almost evolutionarily determined, I'm as jealous as I feel superior.

In the most respectable way I can. Because everyone, presumably, feels the same way (though they are wrong as I am right.)

But then, one day, I realized that if not for the spiritual, except for being happy, there's no reason to exist, which took me by surprise for probably less than a minute, when I understood it meant I got to pick whatever I wanted, optimally one day forgetting it ever was a choice.

I suppose the religious people might've figured this out quicker than me. 

And now, way too much like my parents, my art, words, family, and walks are my meaning.

Blind Guy's World

In early February, I walked into the Citadel in Den Bosch to look at one of the great perspectives of the city. I sat down on a bench, listening to Echoes. 

A little later, a guy I had noticed a minute before found the bench. I assumed he also wanted to enjoy the view.

""I don't care much about the concrete,"" he told me. He mustn't have noticed my headphones, or maybe he didn't care, and because I didn't want to make it awkward and was severely confused, I responded, which I wouldn't typically: ""What do you enjoy?""

I was mostly confused because the perspective we were looking at contained no concrete.

And without thinking, he explained: ""Solid shapes, depth, dots. Colors do nothing for me."" Part of this seems reasonable, but sometimes, when someone gives me a subjective opinion I don't share, I can't believe them. 

Then, I knew it was time to leave. I hadn't been able to enjoy the perspective much since noticing the guy anyway, and now he wasn't making much sense.

I told him he had some good taste and that I had to go. Only when I had left the Citadel and walked next to the water I noticed he was blind -- because while flying away from the bench, he crashed into the bridge.

So, in his honor, I recreated that guy's world, or at least what I could understand from his confusing opinions.

Stairs At Night

Differences in light and visibility change scenes much, and not at all. It's easy to not care about impressive sights and, at the same time, to feel very passionate, maybe even emotional, about an ordinary backyard. 

More so than any changes in the atmosphere, it's a different mindset that can suddenly transform an uninteresting building into a masterpiece.

Often, a change in the scene is just an excuse to look around, and when you do that, looking for great perspectives, they, however impossibly slowly moving, even creep up on you.

And there's no way to preserve it; a picture will never capture the same feelings, as they're part of the mindset, and any description or imitation will be a weak copy (at best). All you can do is enjoy it and maybe be inspired, knowing the great impression this made on you. 

Or, perhaps I'm just bad at what I do -- here are the stairs of the Library in the heart of Den Bosch, shining bright in the dark.

Looking All Ways With My Headphones On

When I'm about to walk homeward from my weekly visit, my mom, after I've just declined her offer to drive me back, says:  ""Be careful, especially with those headphones on.""

If I wanted to die, I wouldn't do it by walking off into traffic, so, of course, I'll make sure to be careful -- looking every way imaginable multiple times. 

Honestly, and please don't tell her this, it's not the headphones that are dangerous; I can hear the cars. It's the hair that, more than my glasses, makes me practically blind.

Sometimes, I make a weird turn, and all roads start going in different directions and dimensions. I still look all ways, but it's quiet, like cars never existed, for the whole 50-minute walk.

Then, the insanity inflicted on me is more dangerous than traffic could ever be. Luckily, when I'm back home, working on my art, I'll forget all about it, and my parents, and the need to look all ways.

Staring At My Incomplete Work

If you ever caught me like this, which you never could, it would be easy to assume that despair is tormenting me.

Yes, I might be frustrated, but somehow, this is the most satisfying and worthwhile activity to pursue.

Often, I complain about not having enough time (to work on my art). And this takes many minutes, multiple times a day when I would otherwise be busy painting. 

While torture wouldn't be able to uncover what I'm thinking while sitting there, I've never wasted a minute staring at my incomplete work.

Then, when a piece is complete, I never look at it with the same passion. I still love (and hate) it, but there's so much less to see when you've already made all the decisions.

Most Vivid Recent Memories Are dreams

Sometimes, while reflecting on my life, it's hard to determine how long certain aspects have been present. 

An example is that (maybe recently), throughout my day, I have some memory of an odd situation that only ever happened in my head.

Yet such a memory often still feels as vivid as the memories about my recent visit to my parents, when I went to a poetry night or a walk I went on.

I don't know if I'm ever confused whether a memory is real or not -- I don't think I am, but if they feel as vivid, how could I know? 

And should I even care? 

A beggar I once knew spent half his life dreaming he was a king; the guy was just a king waking up to be a beggar.

Desiring Something You Don't Want

It's so easy, maybe too easy, to talk when I'm not thinking about it; words, sentences, and stories quickly and without restraint come out of me.

Sometimes, I have to think about what to say. Then, I understand how the Buddhist monks do it -- because, it feels like, not even a letter or number comes to mind.

There seems to be nothing more difficult in this world than having to think about conversation.

I can only assume that people desire to be among others much, seeing all the boring high-effort things they don't care about, they do to achieve it. 

Perhaps it's easier for them. Or maybe they don't know how to entertain themselves.

Occasionally, I also have a desire for social attention. When that happens, I might do something tiresome I don't care about, talking to strangers.

And when that's easy, it can be fun, but it quickly reminds me of why I spend so much time alone. It's not that the people are inadequate -- maybe they are, but it's hard to get to know them. 

No, I'm alone because it costs so much effort to do a tedious task for something I probably wouldn't want anyway.

Most Details Are Redundant

Most details in art (and life) are redundant. I probably only believe this because my work isn't that exact.

Of course, my art does contain detail -- it's impossible not to have detail if you're portraying anything, especially if you've been doing it for a while. 

But when I think about 'detailed' work, I think about purposefully capturing small elements relating to the idea of the art piece. 

Instead, I focus only on what makes the idea engaging. And then, I use details solely to make those few elements more intriguing.

However, someone might call my art redundantly detailed, and I might prefer a needlessly detailed piece over one with few. 

So it's all just arbitrary gatekeeping in the end.

Need To Create Something Good

Inside of everyone, presumably, is an urge to do something meaningful.

But instead, because I don't believe in meaning, I'm trying to make good art -- which, somehow, I've convinced myself is purpose.

And I satisfy this urge probably any time I finish a piece, or at least in the following days while staring at it.

If I stare at it long enough, some hate also arises, which drives me to make more art. 

That hatred never goes too deep: I appreciate what I learned and being able to see the ideas I sat on for, most likely, a couple of weeks.

I keep bouncing between loving and hating a piece until it has been on my wall long enough. Then it feels like it always was. Like it being there is a fact of the universe. 

At that point, I lose the ability to love or hate it.

Hopefully, I never make anything too good. I wouldn't know what to do with myself. 

There's no reason to repeat yourself over and over if what you've already done is as good as it gets -- which would leave nothing else to do.

Bad Year Can't Complain

Comparing your state of mind from year to year seems nearly impossible. 

Last year might've been the worst year of my life (so far) because of some anxiety problems that now constantly seem present. 

It wouldn't surprise me if it were, but I'm uncertain how I could compare how I felt like as a 4, or 12-year-old. 

So, I'll settle for calling it just a bad year.

Maybe one of the worst things about it is that I've got it good in many ways; I work on so much satisfying art, live comfortably, and have little stress in my daily life. 

That may not sound bad to you, but it is -- now I feel like a loser when complaining. 

And complaining is one of the most fun things you can do.

Even Sober Months Disappear

I'm sure that humans invented language in part so that they could better complain about time going fast. 

So here's the obvious: somehow, it feels like, at least when looking back, every couple of seconds, a day passes. 

Habits are something my brain likes. When I was using drugs, this also quickly became a habit. While it was, time evaporated, and I spent much of it on useless dopamine machines.

In hopes of slowing down time, in part by spending it better, I decided to get sober. 

And now, even sober, spending my time better, months are disappearing.

Another Bird Over Water

Don't remember or care where, but I noticed a bird flying over water. What a free creature. Do you think it understands the depths it's flying over with such ease? Few do. 

It reminded me of another time (the 16th of September, 2022) when I saw a similar bird flying over similar water, and I decided to draw it (#386).

So now, because of that loser, I have to feel unoriginal about an idea I feel strongly about. But the joke's on that guy, I never was original. Only the insane ever do anything new, and I haven't lost it yet.

And that's the key: accepting there are probably four billion other people who have had the exact idea you feel so passionate about. 

If you're lucky, you'll convince some that you thought it better.

Another Lonely New Year

It's almost 12. I look outside and see groups of people coming from their apartments. Out of nowhere, I feel lonely. 

The feeling wasn't wrong; I had been alone all day, if not all week, but I usually don't feel like it.

Seeing those people reminded me of the parties I had been to in the past -- which I mostly hated going to. I didn't go to many.

People who like parties are faking it. At least, I can't understand it, other than it being an excuse for getting high (which, when I still got high, I had no trouble doing on my own).

I think I feel lonely, not because I'm not around people, but because I don't want to be.

Haven't Seen The Sun In A While

It's not like I haven't been trying. (Almost) every day, she knocks on my windows, but when I go outside, all I can find are clouds and their tears.

Maybe she's upset. In the summer, she worked long hours, seven days a week, but couldn't find me -- I was inside then. 

She gets too hot sometimes.

And also, my brain made me feel like I was about to explode. I decided that if an explosion were my fate, I'd rather have it be inside.

But now I ache for her warmth. Looking at trees, grassfields, and bodies of water without her around somehow always feels less beautiful. 

When the summer is back, I'll miss the gloomy days of the winter. Yet again, what makes me happy is complaining about what I can't have.

Until the sun returns, I'll hallucinate lush trees, free-flowing water, and green grass fields.

High Water In Den Bosch

I don't know much about many things (like most people). How and why the water inside of Den Bosch goes up or down is one of those things.

Recently, it rained a lot, maybe that's why? But it often rains, and the water rarely consumes the city.

Anyway, so there was high water in Den Bosch, which I walk through frequently, and it was a pleasant sight. 

Some benches I sometimes sit on are now inaccessible because of it. And boats that typically relax on the water are now swallowed up by it.

Sometimes I think about if the rising sea level will inevitably result in much worse consequences for Den Bosch (I guess the Netherlands in general, but who cares about places you never or rarely visit).

There's nothing I can do to help that. So I won't worry about it either. Hopefully, if the water does end up swallowing us all, it'll at least be beautiful.

Finally alone

Being alone is fantastic. Or so I tell myself. 

I'm conflicted, as I refuse to engage in behavior that would result in me not being alone (because I don't want to do those things), but sometimes I get the urge to connect to others.

Even then, it's challenging to be completely alone. In my apartment, where I live alone, my many neighbors, make noise sometimes . And otherwise, the cars driving by would.

If all of those are somehow quiet, there's also still this device that puts sounds in my ears, which I could remove, but what's the point?

One of the ways to fully be alone is to go for a walk in a more secluded area. This painting is inspired by walking past the Bosche Broek. It was cold and dark, and within, I saw a tiny figure who seemed all alone. I was, and still am, jealous.

Parents In Mirror

The older I get, the more I start recognizing my parents in myself. I'm not even that old yet, so I fear the similarities will only get more apparent with time.

Even though she might not like or admit it, the same is true for my sister. 

I'm sure there are many more positive similarities than negative, but my sister and I love complaining about our parents, and nobody likes being a hypocrite. 

I guess it's a small cost for something as fun as complaining.

Then there's my art. As an artist, it's horrible to be stale. My art isn't like anything my parents have ever done. And when I'm delusional enough, I hope that my art isn't like anything anyone has ever done. 

But it's hard not to compare my parents' work with many of the characteristics that, I think, are important for making good art.

Are They Looking At You?

It's not paranoia, but whenever I'm out for a walk, it always feels like everyone is looking at me. 

I'm not the most normal-looking person, but I'm sure I'm not that special either. 

Then I start debating myself about whether what I'm feeling is normal. I can't be the only one who feels like people are watching, but that reality wouldn't be acceptable. 

Because it makes me feel so uncomfortable, maybe anxious, even, and if this is normal, well, it couldn't be helped. If it's not, there might be something I can do to prevent it.

The Bowl

A while before I work on the ideas I develop into art pieces, I send them to myself using WhatsApp. I can only presume that this idea came while making breakfast using a bowl.

I suppose I must've thought about how practical, and maybe even beautiful, the bowl was. And about how universal the tool is to humans and has been for centuries. 

Or, more likely, I was just in the mood for coming up with ideas. 

Sometimes, but rarely, I've got great ideas that, on merit alone, make for great art. If I only were to develop those great ideas, I wouldn't make much art at all. 

And because I don't know any rules about making art, I need to make a lot of (less outstanding) art to improve. 

So, most of the time, I work on ideas that are merely an excuse to work on more art. But don't get it twisted. These ideas are way more important than the great ones: 

The great ideas make a fantastic piece by themselves. But to develop anything good with worse ideas requires putting a special kind of thought into it, which, with time, will make all my art better.

Fruit

The family of my half-sister, Americans, had never eaten any vegetables or fruit in their lives. Instead, they opted for poor, sugary imitations.

To one of my ancestors, and you don't have to go that far back, our everyday fruit might seem like imitations of theirs. 

But our selectively bred, more extensive, more consistent, more colorful, and less seedy fruit is a sign of the inventiveness of humans and how we can use nature for our benefit.

Although genius, the processed food my sister's family ate is just not as great, as they rely much less on enhancing natural flavors and more on optimizing addictive food. 

That's just personal taste, though. What is objective is that fruit is more beautiful and fun to portray. 

Nails Keep Growing

For a human, many annoying things are certain. Among those, the obvious are breathing, hunger, thirst, tiredness, labor, rent, taxes, buying anything, and death.

Anyone who does not experience all of those might be inside of a human body, but they're not human. In the same way, a church without God is only a building, and a forest without trees is simply a bare plane.

But the worst of the unavoidables is the growing of my nails.

Much too often, there comes a point where I realize they've grown much too long, a point where I have to get a nail cutter and always end up cutting them way too far.

Fighting Sleep (Like Valentijn)

My baby nephew Valentijn, like everyone else, gets tired sometimes. And when he does, his grandparents will prepare him for bed. 

When they do, he's always fighting them, which is ridiculous. His tiredness is unmistakable, and when he finally gets put to bed, he falls asleep instantly.

More ridiculous than that are the adults who, when they get tired, know they should get sleep but stay awake.

I'm a very responsible adult, so for me, this isn't an issue at all. I've got a job, meaning I need to wake up in time, so I'll get in bed early enough to get some good sleep.

But when I don't have my job the next day, I act just like my nephew, but unlike him, there's nobody to put me to bed except myself, so I stay awake, wasting so much of my precious free time for no good reason.

Sober In A Smoke Filled Room

An ex-colleague came to the Netherlands for a concert, and we met for a few hours. He's a nice guy, except for his nasty habit of always having an excuse for not making art, which drives me crazy. 

Even though it frustrates me, I do get it. To get anything done, I have to be slightly obsessed. Similarly, for me, it's impossible to use drugs only once in a while.

My friend wanted to smoke weed, which you can do at a coffeeshop in the Netherlands. Weed used to be a daily habit of mine, which I had wanted to quit probably as soon as it became one. 

So I was reluctant as I hadn't been to a coffeeshop since getting sober. And I knew I wasn't ready to smoke without likely quickly falling back into a habit. 

But I believed I was ready not to get tempted (and I begged my friend to give me nothing if I asked). Honestly, due to recent anxiety, even thinking of smoking makes me nervous, so it wasn't difficult.

That's what this painting captures: anxiously, though unrelated to the setting, sitting in a coffeeshop for the first time since becoming sober, next to my friend who's probably explaining for the fifth time why he can't just paint.

Dying Alone

"Sometimes, I feel like I only make art to upset my mom. Probably because she's one of the only people I talk to about my art. 

And honestly, I love seeing her get sad because of my art; the whole point is to provoke emotions. But I also hate knowing my art hurt her. I know she's hurt because of the reality of what I've decided to portray, not because of me, but still, I'd rather see her happy.

Regardless, a family member recently became terminally ill, which inspired this piece. We're no longer in contact, so I'll probably never see them again.

They seemed to have become quite delusional the last time I saw them, and I didn't have much of a relationship anyway, so their passing doesn't hurt. 

Frankly, they're not important enough for a painting dedicated to their passing. But it made me think about myself.

Making friends is easy, but I never want to do anything with those friends. After a while, they all learn not to invite me, as I won't attend anyway. It's not that I don't like them. Some of them are very cool people. The others are nice enough. But for some reason, I prefer to be alone. 

However, I can't help but be afraid of the future. There's a good chance that I will die alone, and I'm not sure if I'm going to regret those decisions. 

So sorry, Mom. I know it's not too late to change, but I'd rather be alone."

Hospital At Night

On the outskirts of Den Bosch, close to where I live, there's a great hospital called the 'Jeroen Bosch Hospital' named after the famous painter. It's hard to miss the building when I go for a stroll.

I have no emotional attachment to the hospital as I'm just not that kind of person, but I've got some memories there;

It's the place where I first saw my nephew, Valentijn, after he was just born, the place where I delivered my excrement twice, and where they stole my blood once.

And where, while doing psychedelic truffles with my friend, we got stranded on a bench because my friend was losing his mind. His father called an ambulance (even though we could've just walked). While waiting, I stared at the hospital, trying to stay sane.

I could lie and tell you this painting is about my memories. But it's not.

The extraordinary hospital, when it gets dark, shines beautifully. And that's the only reason why I decided to paint it.

If it reminds me of anything, it's all the sick people in there, some of them barely surviving or coming to the end of their lives as you're reading this. 

You might be able to make a parallel to some of Jeroen Bosch his paintings if you'd like, but instead, I let the building itself entertain me.

Mushrooms

Mushrooms are, and have always been, something I enjoy finding whenever I do. They seemingly seem to hide for the better part of the year until someday you go outside, and for some reason, anywhere you look, there they are.

They're frankly fascinating organisms. I don't know much about them and don't care to learn more. But from the little I understand, and simply their appearances, they stand out from other organisms, seemingly all being weird alien creatures.

However, if you think hard enough, anything becomes bizarre because it is. So that doesn't mean much anyway.

Stressful dreams

Anxiety is my only friend that follows me anywhere I go. Whenever I have to do something social that I haven't done before (or just not in a while), like the heroic task of going to an unfamiliar store or calling someone I don't know, there's this familiar but forever unpleasant, anxious feeling.

But recently, for seemingly no reason, this anxious feeling is constantly present. Any stress is more stressful, and any otherwise relaxing moments, I'm still on edge, feeling like I forgot something crucial.

When it started, every time I went to bed, I hoped I would wake up the next day feeling normal again.

However, in recent nights, there hasn't been much hope, just fighting my brain to get to sleep. When I finally win the debate and doze off, the anxiety follows me, even in my dreams.

Clocks

During the workweek, I work a couple of very long days so that my weekends last longer. Any hour I spend making art, I need to waste at least 30 minutes, so having a lengthier weekend makes it easier to get art done. 

Now, for some reason, when I finally make it to the end of the week, I mostly spend it doing nothing satisfying: playing games or watching videos. Don't get me wrong, I get some art done, but I could accomplish much more.

I might as well merely sit in a chair, looking at a wall of clocks, where anytime I look at a different one, hours zoom by, wasted doing nothing but thinking: ""I should stop wasting my time."" Knowing I won't.

Cold White Guy

I'm a Dutch guy, so Dutch that if they analyzed my heritage, they would have to invent new terminology to define my Dutchness. If you didn't know, we Dutch people are generally very white, which is also true for me.

Walking is a big part of my life. I couldn't live like this at all in a lot of other (flawed) cities, but here in the great Den Bosch, I generally get by.

It's been pretty cold, not historically, but relative to the rest of the year. I maybe prefer the cold, as now, I never really get hot and sweaty during my walks, but it does mean I get cold.

Recently, during a walk, I looked down at my hands and noticed they were very pink, obviously from the cold, which I've witnessed maybe a couple hundred times in my lifetime. 

And I never really thought much about it. So I must've been desperate for art ideas, seeing as I wrote this one down. But it's an interesting idea and had me wondering what similar experiences others have that I won't ever share.

Only Light In Window

This time of year is so dark here. I thought the shortest day of the year was a month before it was. I made the same mistake last year. And again, when I realized we would have another month of ever shorter days, it made me incredibly sad.

Regardless, something I now realize I've missed in the summer months is that in the dark world, the lightest parts are the insides of houses.

I might have missed this because I don't go outside that much when it's late, so I don't see the darkness in the summer, or because during the summer, people have a lot of time to realize it's getting dark, so they often close their blinds, and somehow they forget to do it when it's dark earlier.

The result is that now, during my walks, I get to look around and see all the fascinating rooms inside all the buildings. 

Bird On Ledge

I don't remember when, but at some point, during some walk, I must've seen some birds on a ledge and thought: 'Now that's a sight I must replicate in my art.'

My sister swears that it was during a walk we went on together. To make her feel special, I told her it was true. Frankly, I don't remember, and often, I need to be alone to get any ideas, so I doubt it.

It's not like my ideas are that deep. They're mainly just ordinary things. But when I put myself in a specific mindset, these typical things make me feel something, so I write them down to work on later. 

And when I start working on those ideas, I regularly forget why I wanted to draw them and how it made me feel. That's fine because I wrote it down, which means that it must be an idea worth developing.

This piece is about a bird on a ledge, looking over a larger landscape. I would love to join the bird and experience the sight.

Stoned Party

I used to get stoned a lot. Nowadays, I'm sober, but I doubt I'm completely over it yet. Regardless, I don't go to many parties, and the ones I did go to, naturally, I would get stoned at. 

Parties are just an excuse for people to get high on whatever substances,  feeling like they're not addicted because they only do so when at parties.

Part of the reason I don't see a reason to go to parties is that I'm not sure if there's any benefit to getting high with people around you over getting high alone.

So, I would choose to get high on my own. I can only imagine that other people get something from the social interactions that I don't. Or maybe it exclusively is that they don't want to feel bad about their drug habits.

But this painting isn't about any of that at all. It's just that Moai reminded me of being at some of those parties. Man, I love Moai. They convey such emotion I can look at them for ages.

The Addict

Being addicted is nice. I like being addicted. It makes life easier. Instead of constantly working to do something meaningful, I can relax and waste my time.

At the end of the day or week, I think about where all my time went. I'll realize that I wasted so much time again and think: "I should spend less time doing these useless things. So I can focus on what makes me happy".

Then, the next time I can spend my time better, I'll choose not to because I prefer not to work to do something significant. No, what makes me happy is to waste my time.

The GP

People who accurately understand how they're feeling are geniuses. I'm never sure how I feel, and often, I'm sure I don't know, which drives me crazy. 

One day, I woke up, and I just felt weird. Generally, I hate dealing with people and being in situations that I'm not familiar with, so it took me two weeks to call and go to the GP. 

Unfortunately, at first, I assumed that it was some stomach problem, maybe that I had poisoned myself, as I still relatively recently went to live on my own and, admittedly, some of my health habits were awful.

For two and a half months, the GP and I explored and did tests to understand what it could be. We concluded that it might be something mental.

And I appreciate the GP. When talking to her, I very much felt listened to, although sometimes I'm not sure if she fully got what I said. 

But now, and this will probably take years to understand, I don't know whether to be thankful for her help or upset about how long it took to come to such an obvious conclusion.

End Of The City

"Everything ends, though hard to identify, even cities do, but it's easy to tell that one of my favorite walking spots is on the edge. 

It's not the most peaceful spot in the surrounding area, but probably the quietest while still, maybe technically so, inside of the city. 

There's this great perspective on the beautiful city of Den Bosch, with just before it a highway bringing many people anywhere they need to go. At the same time, if you turn your head, you see this endless sight of birds and green. Which likely isn't inside the city anymore. Who cares about borders anyway? To me, it's the most meaningful part of the city.

And then I get bored and go to the ugly but functioning neighborhood not too far away, happy to be back and to see the many ugly and angry faces."

Balloon In Tree

"Another cold day. It's not even that late, and the sun is gone already. The sun hides away before the day even starts this time of year. It's pretty peaceful out here. 

It was a Thursday, so I ate with my parents. My baby nephew, who they care for, was as loud as always. I taught him some guitar today, but I don't think he gets it yet. 

Finding what to say to my parents when I'm there is always hard. Seeing them makes me happy anyway, but sometimes it's easier to talk about nothing to strangers than to my parents. Maybe it's because I don't want to waste time on stupid topics with my parents, which doesn't leave much else.

Walking is great. Wherever I go, as long as it's reasonable, I walk. My bike also doesn't work, and public transport isn't for me, so I don't have a choice but to love it either.

So, with everything on my mind, I walked back home in the peaceful, cold, sunless world. I was almost home and pretty tired when I decided to look up, where I noticed two balloons in a tree. 

Can you imagine being one of those balloons? All you want to do is go up and travel great distances, but there you are, stuck, until maybe the wind helps you out, too far up for anyone else to reasonably get you out."

Coach's Garbage Containers

"When I quit playing basketball, I had played half my life. One afternoon, I realized that the sport cost more effort than I could care to put in. And as I do when I conclude somewhere or with something, I left the game behind: I haven't touched a basketball since or talked to anyone I used to play with. 

A couple of coaches trained me over the years, and honestly, I mostly don't remember them or what they taught me. Whatever it was, it certainly isn't that helpful anymore. 

But, probably my favorite coach, maybe the best, is whose garbage containers this painting is about.

It's pretty interesting, though also very obvious and predictable, how you can meet people you've known in the past in unexpected ways. I hadn't thought about him in years and certainly didn't expect to meet him again.

So apparently, my old coach is an artist who painted these garbage containers, which happened to be on this street I travel past quite often. 

And now, every time I walk by, I take a good look and think about my old coach and basketball, all the people I played with, and how one day, like the sport, I might drop any art I do as well.

The art has meaning, which I connect with, but the context about who created it and how it relates to me inspired me to make something of my own."

My instruments

"Creating any art requires some instrument, I think, and possibly, partially, because of that is why there's such a fascination with instruments from artists. 

Some instruments are also just fun objects to portray. Some companies have good logos, but the branding of pianos and certain guitars is incredible, so much so that merely glancing at them makes you want to play.

In this case, looking around my room made me want to paint the instruments I sometimes, but not often enough, use to make music. There's something to portraying one art form with another."

Highway

"Humans spend so much time on highways in cars, going to many places, and most often coming back too. While on the road, the perspectives are fascinating but repetitive. But if you're wasting your time away, traveling huge distances, you might as well enjoy whatever repetitive sights you find.

Convincing yourself that the tedious elements of life are fascinating is a superpower that I wish I could tap into more often.

But honestly, now that I don't live with my parents anymore, being in cars is a rarity, let alone being on highways. If I do happen to travel, it's often by train, but I mostly don't go anywhere.

So this painting is more about my perspective when I walk past the highway at the edge of Den Bosch, gazing into the endless roads, enviously thinking about the countless people going by, many of whom I might never see again, who are riding their cars going to many fascinating, or so I presume, places and coming back."

Janis Joplin

"What a voice. 

It's difficult not to be somewhat mad, although this is very selfish, at all the great artists that died so soon considering all the art we might've had but never will, can you imagine what else Jimi Hendrix, the Doors or Basquiat, could've done? 

When thinking about Janis as well, it's hard not to think about how her life ended and how she suffered throughout, which is maybe unfortunate as there was much more interesting about her.

Still, I think she is unique in that she wasn't that conventionally attractive, which is often very important for anyone famous, but especially for notable women. No, what made her so prevalent was her voice and writing, and deservedly so.

I don't know her, and I'll never know her, so my understanding of who exactly she was is incredibly limited. From what I know, and this can also be intuited by her passing, there was a lot of sadness, but she presented as a friendly and happy person.

And that's what I wanted to capture: the happy Janis, with a large mouth from which came a crazy volume, singing about what interested her, smoking a cigarette, like she often did."

Beautiful Boring LIfe

Like everyone, I'm addicted to keeping myself entertained, meaning I almost always have some video and music playing. Even that often isn't enough, so I also frequently find myself scrolling through social media. 

I like walking, it's another good way to keep myself busy, though even while walking I'm always listening to something. Sometimes, often but not always, while sitting on a bench or during a walk, I remove my headphones, and I sit, look, and listen.

And it makes me feel some weird way that I don't know how to explain, but the best I can do is to call it the beauty of our boring lives.

What if your sister was the Sky and so that any time you'd look at her, she'd be very different?

It means that some days, she'd be so calm, sweet, and sometimes, if you're lucky, even genius. But frequently, she would be more angry and destructive than anything else really can be in your life, destroying anything she wants to, seemingly for no reason. Would you be able to look back and appreciate the genius?

You think you know that she tries her best to be regular and often doesn't remember doing anything wrong, suffering more than anyone else could, from more than she even outwardly shows.

But it's hard to be compassionate because you have in the past, and it never works out great, even though you know that maybe you should and that you're selfish for not wanting to try.

You might have difficulties understanding who she is. It could take you decades to slightly comprehend that she is just what she happens to be that day, depending on the state of the world. Maybe some aspects are pretty familiar from day to day, but are those elements what make a person if everything else changes? 

Perhaps you'll find yourself in a loop, thinking about it all over and over, never reaching a new conclusion, only to realize that there is no final conclusion, and it feels like it's not even worth thinking about anymore. 

Could you stop yourself from disliking her, especially seeing the problems she still, and maybe will forever cause? But even that, you might realize, is pointless because she's not, maybe unfortunately so, a monster.

You can imagine that it would be difficult to trust people in general, seeing as you wouldn't even be able to trust your sister to be the same person the next time you see her, let alone be reasonable or friendly. You might learn to deal with stress weirdly, conceivably contributing to some general anxiety. 

What an easy topic to make "meaningful" art about, though. I'm confident I wouldn't trade in all my art to have grown up without her.

Parent With Child

I'm not very sentimental, or maybe I simply don't want to be.

So when I saw a woman with her child in a cargo bike, and I thought about my parents, how they carried me around the world for so long, and how now they don't. That wasn't me being sentimental: some things in this world are good, interesting, universal ideas that require capturing, which I did.

Honestly, I'm happy to be independent from my parents, and they're probably glad that I can take care of myself. I love them, even if they, understandably so, radiate stress sometimes.

But I feel I should appreciate them more than I do. It's hard to find the time to spend with them (even though it's too easy to find the time to waste on useless dopamine machines). Even when I do, it's challenging to find good topics. So many things are not worth speaking about, and so many worthy things are easy to forget.

They, or probably me, 'deserve' that extra time though;

Because, so often, while working on my art, or I suppose, in general, I still feel like that kid in the cargo bike getting brought to where I need to go by my parents.

Tree In Field

While sitting on one of the great benches of Den Bosch, reality hit me; I was out of ideas for things to paint, which often happens as I paint a lot. 

Actually, honestly, I had already realized this at home, which was the cause of this particular walk. It took this bench to inspire ideas, so I wanted to give it more credit.

Nonetheless, after some time walking, I found a bench worthy of sitting and sat down. I documented six ideas over fifteen minutes of concentrated sitting. The two previous paintings were conceived here, and the next three ones will be, and obviously, this one was also.

This idea was about my surroundings at the time. I looked forward and noticed a lonely tree in this intensely large field. It wasn't a great or meaningful idea, but a good enough excuse to paint anyway, so I wrote it down. 

That's the 'meaning' of this piece: a beautiful tree in a massive field from a fascinating perspective that hopefully makes you feel some way.

Cute Cow

Some people think eating 'pets' like dogs and cats is wrong and eating cows is okay because cows aren't cute. They're wrong. Cows can totally be, and often are, pretty cute. Now, I'll still eat them, so you might consider me evil, but I'll take that as I could've been an evil hypocrite instead.

Pretty close to my house, in a field close to where a family get-together was once, there are a bunch of cute cows I wanted to capture. In actuality, the cows aren't really pink, and neither are the surroundings as portrayed. Even though it's nothing like reality, while looking at this piece, I can feel the wind through my hair and hear the cows communicate their blues.

The next time you walk by some cows, try to see the cuteness in them. In the same way you might for a cat or a cow, it shouldn't be difficult, and if it is you're probably merely biased.

Art inspired by the tranquil benches of Den Bosch. A testament to the beauty found in simple walks and the muse they provide. A homage to moments of reflection and creativity.

The Bench

Going for walks is one of the best hobbies I've got. It's undefeated not only because moving is healthy for a human (like me) but also because it's a great way to waste time, listen to music, and get ideas for art. 

There are many benches around Den Bosch with beautiful perspectives, or at least sights that have me convinced of their beauty, which is one thing I definitely do thank this city for.

Often while out and about I find myself sitting on one of those benches, with or without a piece of paper and a marker, looking at those beautiful sights. 

It's all meaningless and a waste of time, yet still mesmerizing and, more importantly, inspiring for my next piece of art I can waste even more time on.

This piece is dedicated to none specifically but all of those benches I've sat on before and will sit on in the future.