SHARED CANVASES: Thoughts on Life Scripting

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

Our lives begin as soft sketches—
pale outlines of possible futures.
But gradually we accumulate textures
as circumstances scrape like sandpaper against us,
leaving grooves, scars, and ridges
become our signature.

At times we bring beauty to our canvases,
arranging the chaos into patterns
that shimmer with unexpected grace.

Other times we are paralyzed before our easels:
brushes trembling, hearts thick with doubt,
wondering if any strokes matters,
or if painting leads anywhere.

To live artistically demands courage—
an audacity to make marks when outcomes are unclear.

It requires selectivity: knowing what to keep,
and what to paint over in a better light.

And always, there must be humor—
a willingness to laugh at our absurdities
recognizing that contradictions
integral to each artform.

Indeed, we must learn to love our messes-
they are our children, and soon enough-like us-
they'll merge with the pixels and dust of the cosmos.

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!