Living as art

I think artists may agree with me that a person’s life can be viewed as a work of art. It can create something of beauty, something that men can (potentially) look at afterwards and feel the emotions of your experiences, the lasting effects of your having lived.

I do not know if my life will be remembered (more than likely within a century of my death, I will be forgotten). But I like to think that God will see my life, and all my mistakes, and endeavours, my trials and good fortunes, and that He will appreciate it. Perhaps that is humanity’s purpose.

Of course lives need not be beautiful, they can be ugly. Without exception, though, they will contain emotion – and that is the basic stuff of art. I however, hope, that my life will be beautiful.

Here is a poem that I wrote quite some time ago that expresses this idea.

God, all I want is to live a beautiful life

make my blood the paint
and my soul the brush
for the coarse canvas tattered
and torn and inconstant

make my heart the words
and my tongue the pen
for the yellowed page charred
and doused with tears

make my lips the notes
and my voice the instrument
to cover the worldly din silent
of character and gentleness

make my memory the statue
and my life the chisel
that hacks this cold marble
unrepenting and hard
until its smooth and warm
and it seems to live
and to testify to a life
to admire
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