SHARED CANVASES: Thoughts on Life Scripting

We are born as blank parchments—
shaped by countless hands over time,
brushed by chance and choice,
and by strokes of greed, anger, and grime.

Our lives begin as soft sketches—
pale outlines of possible futures.
slowly gaining textures as circumstances
scrape across us like sandpaper,
etching grooves, scars, and ridges
until we think, "This is me."

At times, we paint with vibrant strokes,
transforming chaos into swirling patterns
that shimmer with a hint of grace.

Yet other times we freeze before our easels:
hearts heavy with doubt, brushes trembling,
questioning if we even know how to create.

To live artistically demands courage—
the audacity to embrace our mistakes.

It requires selectivity: knowing what to keep,
and what to repaint in search of a better shape.

And always, humor is essential;
we take our tiny canvases too seriously.

Indeed, we must learn to love our messes,
for soon enough they’ll merge with the canvas of the cosmos,
becoming one with the magic entropy of existence.

Ella:	(raising her eyebrows, leaning forward, a sharp glint of curiosity in her eyes) So tell me—do we script our lives, or are we merely characters in someone else’s story? Can we choose our orbits, or are we merely satellites of a collective, guiding star?
Shu:	(exhaling, swirling her half-empty cup, a tired half-smile on her lips) Co-authorship seems like the best answer to me. Some of the ink in our lives is provided by invisible authors: ancestors, collective karma, and the culture we inherit. Our ink sources include the thousand pens of history.
Juanita:	(tracing a small circle on the table with her fingertip, her voice quiet but steady) The self isn't a canvas, it's a mirror. Every supposed 'choice' reflects a deep, implanted need—by the market, the family, the city, or the planet. We have a false feeling of painting our own outlines, but we are in a shared collage made from the brushstrokes of everyone who’s ever touched us. Free will is a powerful illusion, isn't it?
Jack:	(glancing at the clock on the wall, its second hand ticking quietly, relentlessly) And all this debate is a beautiful absurdity. Juanita is right: in one sense, determinism rules. Entropy is the only true author, dictating our inevitable end. We are just chemical reactions playing out under a clock face. We have just enough time to mix a few colors before our canvas, and then everything around us disappears.
Ella:	(smiling faintly, meeting Jack’s gaze, her voice now a challenge) Maybe that’s the point: do not worry about finishing anything, but to keep in layering colors as best as we can. The choice to keep on painting in spite of all futility is strangely beautiful!