Life- A Book of Poems

Now

Now is the only moment there is.
Have you noticed any others?

When you look to the future,
you may see countless moments beyond right now.
But you don't see the moments themselves.
Just the thoughts inside your head.

How are we different,
from a madman that lives in fantasies,
when we contemplate moments in the future,
and forget life in the present?

But what about the past?
We carry evidence that it had happened.
Others with us remember it too.
But memories are a fantasy as well.
A dream we all share.

Unlike the present, thoughts are malleable.
They spin and morph like clay.
Even the past is altered as well.
What one person can see as wonderful,
another person can see as awful.

Your mind is good with fantasies.
It is poor at seeing reality.

What are you thinking right now?
The past, present, future?
Your emotions are part of it too.
These are not wrong in themselves.
They only cause trouble when we forget what's real.
Know your tools, keep to the canvas.
What art will you create?

We paint future to make practical plans,
but know where this use ends.
If you become lost in the strokes,
you'll become absorbed into the painting,
and fantasies will cover what is real.

We paint past to learn from mistakes,
but know where that use ends.
If you become lost in the strokes,
nostalgia and regret will consume you,
and you will forget what is real.

We draw the story of our lives.
Most become lost in the drawing
forgetting their role as the artist.
The lines are defined... certain.
This is a terrible limitation.
You become trapped in your work.

Instead of living through fabricated limitations,
let's discover what is real.
How do we tell the difference?

You are reading these words right now.
The words before are part of the dream.
Can you see this?
That's good.
A skilled artist sees their work.
They do not become their work.

And what will happen after,
this poem is done and the book is down?
All plans are part of the fantasy.
Even the most realistic fantasies,
are not real until they happen.

And your thoughts, emotions,
the sensations of the world around you,
are part of the dream as well.
See them, and you'll see the canvas.

What remains?
It is something that cannot be named.
To see it, we have to paint it.
To touch it, we have to stroke it.
We only know its appearance,
once all fantasies have been cast out.
It is you.

What wonderous art you've created!
A living, breathing world around you,
that constantly unfolds at this moment.
Things appear. Things disappear.
Each stroke is always fleeting.

When this stoke ends, remember,
whenever the art of living disturbs you,
you can always return to your primal self.
Be still, now.