The Van Gogh

Definition of a new, better world: The world must be without (Art, music—-creativity)

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"The pen is mightier than the sword" —-playwright Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

He saw the world as it was; and as it stood, it was built on shaky ground with no true story to shape it’s path. The world had a special set of patterns. It had natural wavelengths to follow that created messy, alternative lines of disaster that could’ve and should’ve been prevented. The natural order of disorder within the scope of humanity, nature and how our pride has built up this painful way of developing destruction, was all too easy of a dream to squelch under the new regime of the new story this man had in store.

He saw the grandest story, one that would topple all other stories. One that would topple all notions of freedom and pain and wisdom and fear. The things he saw, he realized were obvious and clear, yet humans have found ways to keep their eyes closed to these truths.

The story was this: destroy all other stories. Destroy all semblance of humanity’s artistic identity and history.

To wipe the slate a marble white, clean and concise. To begin; destroy all forms of art.

He tore down cinemas. He brought down the art museums and history and science centers. Getting rid of Broadway was a huge, celebrated televised event.

That was his biggest accomplishment to begin.

A small issue; his wife had a painting she wanted to keep.

It was an eye sore to him. She kept it in the family dining room. There was a heated debate of the expression of art as a whole and her emotional attachment to the piece, as it had been her mother’s. Her mother had passed away the year prior.

“It is Van Gogh!” She cried. “I love that piece. It’s the Blossoming Pear Tree!”

He said nothing. He took it down and took it outside, burning it. There was nothing more to say. His wife said nothing—-however, she planted several pear trees on their property as her own amendment to the situation, to which he had no issue with. She used the pears to make his desserts. He hated it, but he was happy the painting was gone.

Then, it came down to something he had already started, getting the people to follow him. Really follow him.

It was more than a Cult of Personality, it was a brutal ripping of mass-psychosis better than the likes of Hitler or the faux-mourning of the Eternal Leaders that made up North Korea’s DPRK authority—-this was created through a massive destruction of humanity’s innate nature to rebel.

To keep up with current worries and erase the massive amount of tax stress the current prison system had become on the backs of the everyday citizen, he had done away with prisons and jails.

To solve where the juvenile delinquents would go—-there would be more focus on education and support than punishment. However, with reoffending beings, there would be severe consequences.

The major step in developing his success was getting rid of the undesirables of society for good.

He had planned to do this through regularly scheduled programs broadcasted throughout the nation.

The first one was less organized than he had planned.

The event had several different issues with scheduling and guards not keeping up with the program—getting the proper paperwork ready and signed, procuring the transportation necessary for the offenders to get to the station.

The mass executions(by a professional firing squad) were to be live televised—-and of course that was always expected to be a bit of a mess. Cameras going on the fritz, sound devices not working properly—-but he put them all in line after that first time.

But, once the first ten publicly televised nationwide executions were held; it was like clockwork and nothing but God would stop it.

Yes, he allowed that. He had no delusions of self righteousness on his actions or of his own regard for the saving of his “soul,” if that was even a theological challenge he put himself through. He had other matters to attend to.

Religion was the only vice of the people left, but only in the form of private daily meditations. No more organized religion.

His family was proud of him. Proud would be a word to describe of someone’s accomplishments and how far they’ve come, yes, he had come far. His wife and children had seen it, too.

But pride mixed with horror; pure, unadulterated horror—-that’s something special. You know you cannot do anything about it. You know you cannot change it. Yet, you must continue to live, to keep it, to strive under such stifling brilliance and horrifying protection.

Stories were always something he hated. Creative art—it was something he found to be loathsome and in excess; overindulgence to the extreme. So many suffer and fear for their lives, fight in wars and starve and die in agony and despair. “Whilst we stare at our fat stomachs here, gloating at our works of ‘nothing,’ selling them with blank checks of ‘priceless,’ and—-we get together and laugh at our piles of rich garbage as though we accomplished something great. In reality, the world has grown worse than ever,” He had mockingly said once, mimicking the way a philosopher or artist might try to speak. He usually facilitated quick yet heavy minded conversation with venom dripping from the ends, and it usually hit the perfect notes on the subject he was speaking on—-with a surgical precision that would grab you to your very bones.

He had went on to say that once he was in power—-all works of media—movies, TV shows, music and art, would be incinerated and destroyed. Better yet—he’ll find a way to get the people to help him do it. His power would be their power, and it would employ them to get their hands just as dirty as his were—-only they would feel like they were right.

You might say the reason he wanted to destroy all forms of creative media was because he was lackluster and dull. That certainly wasn’t the case. It that he wasn’t creative, no. He was creative. He imagined art and poetic stories that far reached most popular writers and creators of modern media. He had put out ideas that could’ve been exemplary works of art and fiction; yet, he realized it was not a true endeavor to continue with such a farce.

He had told everyone, his family, his wife—when it came down to it, art had no place in a better world. It made the world feel too much—it made them feel like they had control.

Art and movies made the people feel empowered. And he wanted them to feel weak again.

He was an educated man of his own making. He found his way to the top of his own homespun party by sheer force, sheer will and well read historical PR charm and wit. But more than that, he was a simple man of nothing more than an idea. He had nothing but that.

He wasn’t rich; in fact, he was poor. He had no exceptional experience at an Ivy League school. No connections in government or politics. He had once been a poor speaker—-he taught himself to be a great speaker. Then, with a bit more ferocity and time, he became the magnum opus of all speakers—silver tongued and charming to all. More importantly, intimidating to all.

He simply had an idea that took such a strong hold on him, rooted deep—-that everything before that seemed like a waste.

And now, all the waste of the nation, his nation was being tossed away.

Tossed, burnt, heaved and squashed. Thrown away like the trash they all were.

And the best part, he thought, was everyone was safe at home, eating their dinners—-

Watching the trash being thrown away with a smile.