If Life Was A Canvas

Each pulsing eccentricity of human life, a coloured brushstroke on the canvas of existence, colours of all shade and tonality combining to reflect their own vitalities of animation.
If you step closer and examine the design, the intricacies appear sporadically frantic, disorganised, clumsy, a collateral splattering of imperfections, the ghosts of indecision.
However, stepping away from the veiling details of artistic pursuit,
There lies an image of holistic reflection, a billion shades, both opaque and translucent, lying atop one another; blushing bodies piled high to create a visage much larger than their own.
Playing as cells in a much larger design than their skin.
If they are colours on an easel, is it not their purpose to be painted by a creator?
To be used in a fashion to create an art unobtainable in singularity, can they ever know the design into which they fall if they can never step back and view it completely?
Who is the artist sculpting the abhorrently beautiful painting?
Is He creating a landscape with our corpses and our ghosts, or are we a reflection of the man himself? A self-portrait, made in His own image.
Our brief lives burning out like stars in the mirrors of His eyes- bright then gone forever, each so different, so unique that we are all the same.

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