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With the Stroke of a Brush

Rolling hills, olive trees, vineyards as far as the eye can see – this is the awe-inspiring view from Les Beaux, the castle overlooking Provence. It was here that Van Gogh once stood, brush in hand, painting masterpieces to share his sense of wonder with so many others. Now here I sit, a pen in hand, a breeze against my cheek, with a mind as troubled as Vincent, both of us craving release and creative expression, and inspired by the same hilltop view.

May I have a shred of your power to inspire joy and awe in others, to make people feel the way I feel. You were a genius among geniuses, at the top of your field, and I am but a man. A man still, with the capability to do anything if I can summon the courage, overcome my fears, gather strength, and possess an undying will. It is in moments like these that I see the magic in imagination, feel the magnificence of nature, and long to linger. While asking for these moments to last forever is a doomed request, I hope that when they do appear like a mirage, in their momentary brilliance, I can, for at least a brief lapse in time and space, take out my brush and paint.

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