Let’s just take one small example… The night sky.
When you look at the night sky, what do you see?
Van Gogh could look at the sky and see… well, just look at Starry Night. He saw waves of energy and motion circling around stars, enveloping the sleepy town below. He saw a living, breathing entity — a dance of life that started when the moon was up.
At least that’s what I see when I look at his portrayal of it. But you might see something else entirely. And I’m sure he saw something totally different.
Why is it that, when I look up at the night sky, often all I see is… darkness (if that)? Most times, I give it no thought at all. I’m usually rushing to my car to head to the store or get gas or something last-minute as usual.
Why can’t you describe something to me every day that has enraptured you?
Why are our lives often so colorless? Why, when we get together, do we talk about banal, superfluous shit like sports or the weather? Is it because we just don’t care?
Or is it because we’ve become really good at not-mattering? Of being told that what we have to say is not important. And, more importantly, of believing it. And living it.
We need you to matter more. You need you to matter more. Not by anyone else’s regard, but of your own. Not in an ego-inflated, obnoxious way, but as a way of sharing what’s in that head of yours so as to expand what’s in ours — much like Van Gogh.
I want to hear about what you see when you look at the night sky. Why can’t you tell me?