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.