In a haunting line from a recent
docudrama on Vincent van Gogh, he looks into the distance and says:
“Now I just think about my
relation to eternity.”
That line pierced me. It echoed something I feel often in my own heart—that all our struggles, sufferings, and questions ultimately dissolve into a deeper inquiry, a deeper silence. What is my relation to eternity? What is this life, this story, this identity... in the vastness of consciousness?
Van Gogh’s death has long been accepted as suicide. The textbook version says he shot himself in the chest in a wheat field outside Auvers-sur-Oise in July of 1890. He died two days later, with his beloved brother Theo at his side. He was just 37. Adeline Ravoux, the innkeeper’s daughter, said Vincent admitted, “I wanted to kill myself.”
But as with so many so-called “truths” of history, there are inconsistencies—strange silences in the facts that whisper of a different story.
While his letters often reflected dark moods and anguished self-reflection, there’s also something contradictory in the way van Gogh seemed to be turning toward life. In his final weeks, he painted some of his most breathtaking and luminous works—swirling clouds, golden fields, vibrant skies. Not the typical output of a man determined to die.
Some researchers now believe his fatal wound may not have been self-inflicted. A teenage boy named René Secrétan, known to have harassed van Gogh and owned a malfunctioning pistol, may have accidentally or intentionally fired the shot. The bullet’s trajectory, lack of powder burns, and absence of a suicide note all raise serious doubts.
Forensic expert Dr. Vincent Di Maio has stated that van Gogh’s wound was “in all medical probability” not consistent with a suicide attempt.
And then there's the strangest part of all: Van Gogh may have taken the blame to protect someone else. Imagine that. The same man society branded as mad, who mutilated his ear and was tormented by visions, might have chosen forgiveness and compassion in his final breath.
This mystery around van Gogh’s death isn’t just an historical curiosity. For me, it symbolizes something deeper: the unknowable edges of every soul’s journey. How many of us walk around with incomplete stories attached to others—or to ourselves? How often do we assume we know the truth about someone, when in fact we are only grasping at shadows?
In the great silence of the mystics, there is a willingness to let go of judgment, to see even madness as a divine stage in the soul’s unfolding.
As Ramana Maharshi taught,
“The question 'Who am I?' is not really meant to get an answer, the question 'Who am I?' is meant to dissolve the questioner.”
Similarly, I no longer feel compelled to define van Gogh by the circumstances of his death. Instead, I want to feel into the immensity of what he left behind, and how his art still sings across time.
When I reflect on his imagined words—“Now I just think about my relation to eternity”—I recognize my own longing. A longing to live in awareness of something eternal, not merely endure the dramas of the mind or the judgments of history.
We may never know the absolute truth of how van Gogh died. But we do know this: he lived and painted with the intensity of a soul who could not help but see the divine in everything—even in agony. And perhaps, in the end, that is the deeper legacy. Not the manner of his death, but the radiance of his vision.
As Nisargadatta Maharaj once said:
“All you need is to stop searching outside for what can be found only within.”
Maybe that’s what Vincent finally did. In his last moments—whether by fate or accident—maybe he simply let go and remembered who he was.
And so I return to that line again, letting it settle deep into my bones:
“Now I just think about my relation to eternity.”
If this reflection speaks to you, I
invite you to pause today and ask yourself the same question. Not with
fear or sadness, but with wonder:
What is your
relation to eternity?
Let your soul answer. Let silence answer. Let the stars answer.
And if you're moved, share this post, or leave a comment. Let’s keep honoring those who, like van Gogh, struggled to speak the unspeakable beauty of being.
Did this post resonate with you? Please let me know.