“The more you love, the more you suffer.”

Conscience is a man’s compass.

One of the hardest things to do is to paint darkness which nonetheless has light in it.

One can speak poetry just by arranging colors well, just as one can say comforting things in music.

I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.

How lovely yellow is! It stands for the sun.

What is done in love is done well.

I am risking my life for my work, and half my reason has gone.

The only thing to do is to go one’s own way, to try one’s best, to make the thing live.

As we advance in life it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties the inmost strength of the heart is developed.

It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.

How rich art is, if one can only remember what one has seen, one is never empty of thoughts or truly lonely, never alone.

Be clearly aware of the stars and infinity on high. Then life seems almost enchanted after all.

I never get tired of the blue sky.

The more I become decomposed, the more sick and fragile I am, the more I become an artist.

If one hasn’t a horse, one is one’s own horse.

Paintings have a life of their own that derives from the painter’s soul.

Please, don’t listen to all the hate and take a little break to fall in love with you.

The ‘almost’ kinda love never makes it.

Coping with love’s aftertaste, my fractal feelings sprint in haste, my mellow neurons transmit tears, like a cascade of caramel latte.

We wilted – like weeping willows wallowing wistfully in the wind.

You closed the book before we could reach the end.

Muses are born from a soul that is aching but I would sacrifice the most beautiful art if I could stop one heart from breaking.

Are we still in the same world? Then why do I feel so far away from you? As if our two worlds were separated.

When they try to break you down let the rain nourish your roots; let yourself flourish away.