The Human Painting

The Human Painting

Chapter from my book ‘Love in Vain’
My Rock & Roll Marriage with a Musical Genius

I am a story
The illusion of my thoughts
I am that I am

Let me be your friend in times of darkness, when sadness flows in rivers of tears down to the valley where flowers blossom and the grass is greenest, colored by the daffodils and dandelions and bright red poppies show me the way to your heart. Under the skies reflecting the blue of the ocean and purple of your eternal soul, dragging around this pile of dust and water called a body, creating a presence in the grand illusion of life on earth.
Oh yes! Let me be your friend in this earthly paradise you and me have created together with the God almighty source of creation itself. Of which we are a tiny small particle and yet one, never separated, but melted with the all that is. All that exists! But what then, does all this mean and to whom?

How difficult it sometimes can be, having this human experience with this seemingly limited body with all of these senses one does not know what to do with sometimes. With all these rules and regulations and codes and patterns on how to behave and how to act and how to be, in certain situations, relations, time frames, mind games. With all of these emotions running up and down, round and round, linked to certain thoughts.
Yes indeed. Always linked to a thought, a belief that we embrace, consciously or unconsciously. Emotions never come up out of the blue, independent of whatever happened just before, or long before or still might happen in a distant future. Although most of us belief that they are not connected, they just happen. And are therefore uncontrollable, unreliable, undesirable and random. Emotions or feelings or sensations are not creations, but rather reactions. What is the purpose of all of these often unwanted feelings? What could possibly be the grand outcome of having these beliefs, thoughts, judgments about everything and nothing, other than to suffer and to inflict upon oneself deep pain and agony at the most inconvenient timing, sometimes. What use are these emotions truly? to learn? to experience? to overcome? to become ill? to die early because of a broken heart?

Or are they just the colors of our own masterpiece of life, created by the hand of the Master within us? Are we all artists and painters, painting the greatest painting of our human experience. A Live painting never finished until our last breath and then we will start all over again the next time around on a blank slate. And if so, then who is to admire and enjoy all these amazing artworks of humanity? Is the Universe nothing more than an enormous gallery of Life paintings? Or are they all part of one eternally expanding live painting. How interesting and also utterly meaningless if not for an obscure grand master plan. I could spend my whole life, thinking about these matters, but that would seem like a waste of time. But then again, what is time to an artist working on his grand masterpiece? In that moment, time ceases to exist. There is only this moment and the moment I become aware of it it is already gone.

And so I could go on and on, babbling about these useless thoughts, which serve no other purpose than to fill up space in my head, in my universe in my futile existence. More fuel for the reactive persona non grata, less room for my creativity to reach the surface through the recycled trash within the container of the mind. But without these repeatedly repeating thoughts, stored in the cloud at all times available for everyone, life looks so desperately boring. Or maybe, just maybe there’s a slight chance that the opposite is true. Isn’t a clean, blank slate way more exciting than a finished painting?

And when I read about the enlightened Masters who don’t think anymore and have shed their faded and shaded past, they don’t seem bored at all. On the contrary. So who would I be without my stories? Without my thoughts and beliefs? Would I even exist? Would you? After all I can only see me or you through the filter of my perception, rather deception. To me you are nothing more or less than my filtered vision of you. Even though you might have a totally different perception of your self. Then who are you truly, your or my diluted impression? Or both? And when a thousand people have a thousand different viewpoints of me, then I am all of those too! No exceptions. I am the product of your thinking. I only exist in the collective human mind. What a relief this would be. To be all that is. To be able to say with a shameless grin, when somebody throws a judgement in my face: “YES indeed, that, I am too!”

My Soul is entwined with yours, so therefore all that you are, I am too. We are all one can think of from our collective consciousness. All or nothing at all. As my favorite Jazz singer Billie Holiday used to sing. And if All is only a thought, then No thing exists. Nothing at all. Not really, only our perception of things. And just because we have given it a label, doesn’t mean it’s true. Words are just things we invented. And we gave it a meaning.

That’s all.

<— Freedom

Broken Meadows —>

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