Why we are here seems to be such a never ending question in the life experience. I’m not necessarily sure it has an answer. It’s like a strange koan: endlessly looking for answers to paradoxes. On the other hand, it is perhaps a creative view of things, wherein the reason is to create your own reason. This is strange, however, how does creation occur without the substrate (clay, paint, rock, brush)? Maybe then it is at root the prototype. The uncarved block. The unbleached silk. The unspent canvas. (cf. A Watts)
What is the meaning of life seems an even more complex question. The meaning is: it’s personal. It’s whatever story (inpsirto) touches the observer’s brush. This meaning organizes in the form of self contradictory questions. But these questions are not maliciously intended. Not to dupe one into an eternal feeling of uselessness and melancholy. They are instead, the build and throw away kind of discussions which produce an impression as a tangible result. This impression (experience) is what is held onto. This impression is the marks left with the brush stroke, among all the possible strokes the artist could have made. It builds the basis for the piece to take form.
Good therefore, is that which enriches or endorses freedom and balance - keeps the piece in order, not to lose its elegance and emergent form. Evil is then, that which tilts off balance. Yet, there is an infinite number of strokes the painter can make. Evil is the self conscious brush stroke missed, and orients the painter to think twice about what comes next. A skilled painter therefore, will see that Evil is Good and Good is at root pushing off Evil.
The "higher power" is this process. It doesn’t exist, but does. You speak to it when weak, but deny it when strong. You ignore its presence but it will remain there. It’s behind the mask but is the the mask.
The role of joy is sorrow. The role of sorrow is joy. Injustice is love, and love is quite unjust. Peace is strife, and strife is peace’s caretaker. The meaning of life is you. You’re it. But it’s also not you. The view of life is to search, in creative chaos and touch infinity - to feel as though you are in infinity (absorbuit). But the urgency to capture the nectar before it disappears.
The meaning of life, is the stance you take to observe the painting you’ve created once finished. One sees the strokes missed, paths untaken, expressions not met. But it is by fundamentals, by truth, that, that which stands before you is imperfect because it is concrete. And therefore, the imperfect that stands before you as one of the infinite number of paths taken, is perfect. It’s perfect because of the dissatisfaction of what it could have been does not appear in front of you. It’s perfect because, now you must tear it to shreds and start over, a new path, a new painting.
The root then, is the sneaky contradiction.
The absurdity is the inspiration, the prototype is your medium, and you are the artist.
Kind thanks to cottonbro for the cover image