Wheat is Wheat
In the quiet countryside of Zundert, Netherlands, golden wheat fields stretched as far as the eye could see. The wind rustled through them like whispers of unseen stories. Sitting in a modest room, Vincent van Gogh gazed out of the window, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the armrest of his chair. Across from him sat Dr. Gachet, his trusted physician and confidant.
Van Gogh turned to him with a faint smile. “I spent the afternoon in the wheat fields. As I worked, I watched the golden stalks sway, their heads heavy with grain. But I remembered something—when wheat first sprouts, people mistake it for mere grass.”
Dr. Gachet nodded, listening intently.
Van Gogh’s voice grew firmer. “It made me think… If I am worth anything later, I must be worth something now. Wheat is wheat, even if people think it’s just grass at first. Just because the world doesn’t recognize your value now doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
The doctor studied the artist’s tired but passionate eyes. “Time has a way of revealing the truth, Vincent. And history will remember you, just as a ripe field of wheat proves its worth in harvest.”
A silence settled between them, not of sadness, but of quiet understanding. Outside, the wheat swayed under the evening sun, much like Van Gogh’s thoughts—deep, restless, yet full of meaning.
