You, a woman, in the helplessness behind the pain, your independence broke ground. Even the spine is no longer complete, but your life is always standing. With broken bodies and feelings, you still enjoy everything in life. You paint your flowers on the canvas, your body full of nails, the skeleton in your head, and the man you love who will only hurt you. Pain makes your art, and those paints are your blood stains. You smile, so charming, your chest is heavily filled with art. Jazz, fine wine, Paris, postcards, and even gay love, I know there's no substitute for him, except paint.
I don't understand, I really don't understand, why art always happens in suffering? Why is art always sister to pain? I think of Van Gogh and think of him again, why are your pains written on the paintings, waiting for future generations to stop and watch and sigh? And Bacon, I shudder to think of his tornado-like self-portrait. Why do your paintings, which describe your own suffering, give the pleasure and excitement of appreciation to future generations?
In a daze, I always wonder, if I was born around you people who are suffering, can I visit you and give you some comfort? If I am by your side, can I hug you and let you know that there is still warmth in life after all? If I fell in love with one of you, like Vincent, maybe you wouldn't feel so desperate, right?
My Frida, dear, you are so beautiful among the flowers. Perhaps, death is indeed a relief from illness and mental torment for you, so you will pass away peacefully with a smile in your "Dream". The vine-tangled bed is covered with firecrackers, and after the joyous explosion, the flames give you physical and mental freedom. And I, standing in the crowd on the bank of this river, watching you slowly soaring in the sky.
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