My Dearest Theo,

This letter has hitherto been far too delayed, but such postponement has a reasonable foundation in what I (and, I hope, you) deem to be a bit of bad news. Though I’m sure you’ve heard about it from some source, and though I’m positive a letter of consolation or inquisition is already on its way from you to me, I find it fitting that the words should come from my mouth anyhow — words frightful  and ominous but surely not so surprising: I’ve gone mad.

Please, though, dear brother, do not alarmed. I have taken up residence in a rehabilitative hospital, and while I’m unsure of my complete state of mental health, I do know that it consists of at least a few less dark thoughts, and that this environment is more conducive to stability than my previous dwelling – the dwelling cohabited by the source of this madness, the monster whose name arouses in me sentiments unmatched by Satan himself, the man who single-handedly rendered to an abyss a once-vivacious mind: Paul Gauguin.

Surely, you know of his character. An arrogant, domineering man, he has all but eradicated any previously-held desire to work in harmony with him. But despite his distasteful disposition, I was able to bear him, I was able to put up with him – that is, until one night about a week ago. We were drinking absinthe (a vile liquid I might add) in my den, when he had the nerve to tell me, “Vincent, you might as well give up your art while still young. Your technique and flair is about as primitive as that of a 10 year old.” In a fit of rage I threw my bottle at him, aiming for, but ultimately missing, his inhuman forehead (Oh, Theo, how did I miss such a monstrous dwelling!).

I then proceeded to go to bed, but on the way, I noticed the unsightly mane that had recently made its home on my face, so I went into the bathroom to shave it off. But as I picked up the razor, a disembodied voice whispered to me terrible things – things that rattle my conscience and chill my already-weak bones – which I will not repeat, but rather paraphrase: it told me to use the deadly tool to end my enemy’s life. Thus my body, controlled by some unrestrained, unseen force, carried itself downstairs and outside to the garden, where it found its target hunched over, distracted, and vulnerable. But here a curious thing happened: I was able to gain control of my functions once again, and rather than carry out my possessed body’s original plan, I ran back inside, went once again into my original birthplace of insanity, and cut my ear off. I had to remove the source of the voice that told me to kill Gauguin.

I know I am not well, but I do hope you will soon visit me. Though your face might not make mine as bright as it usually does, I can assure you that it will nevertheless eradicate a few impurities in my soul. You do know how much more I care for you than I do for anyone else in this God-forsaken world.

But no matter what – no matter your face nor my new, “safe” home nor the advances of medicine nor my art nor anything else I once looked upon with joy or contentedness – I  don’t think there is any hope for me. I’ve broken free from my depression before, but this time, I don’t think I’ll be able to escape this prison. Indeed, I’m sorry to say it, but I can’t help but feel like this sadness will last forever.

With utmost love, your brother

Vincent Van Gogh