A Lame Jounral of Wantbe Artist

by Esthernight

Maya/Riley. Maya Hart doesn't talk to her father. Hardly talks to her mom. And she finds there even some things she can't talk to her best friend Riley about, like her feelings for Riley. So why I guess the only thing to do is to...write. She's not a good writer, she's an artist. Well a wantbe artist at least. It's really dumb for her to have dairy. But maybe that might change.

30. Olive Trees in a Mountainous Landscape

I would like to thank everyone who has gotten this far. Your support and encouragement mean so much to me. I love writing more than anything and I'm grateful to have an outlet like this. I will be writing more fanfics. However, this story has been told and must come to an end.

Thank you and please review!

By the end of his stay at Saint-Paul asylum, Vincent Van Gogh created several of his famous works, the most known being The Starry Night. At the end of his journey, Van Gogh had become inspired by the cycles of nature. He wrote to his brother that he had discovered "profound meaning" in the olive trees. He wrote that death, happiness, and unhappiness are "necessary and useful" and relative, declaring "Even faced with an illness that breaks me up and frightens me, that belief is unshaken."

Dear Lame Journal,

Riley and I went to Evelyn Rand's apartment. I was surprised that all this time, they lived in the building across the street from me. I wasn't sure what I had expected their apartment to be like, but I didn't expect it to look so 90's. We sat down on the white leather couch. Evelyn placed a pile of photos on the coffee table.

"Here are some photos." She whispered.

"So…" I slowly said. "I was wondering...if maybe...I could see...what she left me."

Evelyn slowly got up. I never realized how…" old" she was. She motioned us to follow her down the hallway. Into a room with a window.

Then I saw it on an easel against the wall.

And I wept.

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We all gathered around Mrs. Thompson's grave. Our collage was displayed on the grass. I stood there with my lurch tray, taking deep breaths. It was...surreal that a woman I used to know, was now buried 6 feet underneath me. I picked up the red rose from my tray and gently placed it on the grass in front of her tombstone. Then Mr. Matthews walked up with his tray and placed his red rose next to mine. He sniffed his nose, doing his best not to show that he was crying. He lovely squeezed my shoulder as we stepped back. Riley put down a rose. Then Chai followed. Then started the line of former students with lurch trays and roses in their hands.

"Um...hey," I cleared my throat. "Thank you for coming. Mrs. Thompson would've appreciated it. I then place the painting on the easel next to me.

"This is her last painting," I sniffed. "Of our neighborhood. The rust-colored buildings that we live in. The birds flying through the stars, that we look at. A raccoon, surviving in a dumpster. The weeping woman, crying by the flower stand." Tears came down my face and I had to stop to breathe.

I stared out into the crowd. Evelyn was crying too. I looked over at my best friend and my girlfriend standing together. Both nodding to me, in support.

It's amazing how petty our conflicts seemed to be at a time like this.

I exhale.

"I have been looking at this painting from outside my window for three years and every time I see it, I noticed something new. This is life. It's busy. It's chaotic. It's beautiful. I love this painting even more because of I...love the person who painted it."

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Dear Lame Journal,

Today we hung the painting in the cafeteria of John Quincy Adams. It seemed right.

As we hung the painting, I realized how much I love art.

I don't yet know what exactly I'm going to do with my life, but I know that I have a passion. And a talent.

I know I have people that love me. And love me for who I am.

So thank you lame journal for being there for me.

Love,

Maya Hart