Spaces

These are strange spaces. I hear of a space called quiescent which is of quiet inactivity. I seem to be in another space - of responsible activity - a space where every word, every thought, every movement, even a slight shift in my consciousness consequences something. There does not seem to have been an acute call for responsibly acting such as this before. The word purpose seems superfluous in this space. Any attempt to capture this space in words at the moment seems premature and yet there seems to be something right about attempting to describe the indescribable; feels like a worthy pursuit attempted by several before through time and space - a skill that could come handy en route. Strange spaces these.

Me. Who?

I feel presences flitting through me in whatsoever texture and logic they are made up of. I feel like the canvas on which a painting has been made - the colors and whatsoever has gone into making that painting that painting reinstating their qualities, almost like in a certain way asking the canvas to acknowledge the different strokes and hues and whatever has gone into the painting's making. Who am I in all of this? Am I the consciousness in who's presence the drama of whatsoever exists plays out? Am I the Universe looking upon itself distinguishing more of itself and the magnificence of its creation? And yet I have a purpose. I may admire and see more of myself and whatsoever there is and yet I have a purpose for existing, for having come into existence. I feel like the creator and creation. I feel real and just as equally unreal, and that is not a contradiction and in no way absolves me of any responsibility with my existence; in fact, makes the hues more intense, draws me to make efficient strokes, and to live deliberately/determinedly/meaningfully.