A Rembrandt Now

Time is a painting
of whatever I am seeing at the moment

My perception of time, however,
is an outline of the painting of Time,
drawn on cheap tracing paper.

If my tracing paper outline
rests exactly over the painting of Time,
the contours match up and
everything is okay.

On a good day,
I can even convince myself that I am the artist!

Yet sometimes I think about mistakes I've made.
Or things I neglected to do.
Or people that are no longer around.
Or goals I failed to realize.
And I move my tracing paper outline to the left.

Sometimes I doubt I'll ever matter much.
And I become consumed with fear and self-hatred
at all these childish things I once believed
would come to pass and did not.
And I see a pauper's grave
and no one there to cry.
And I move my tracing paper outline to the right.

And my outline looks ugly and artificial
the farther away I get from the original painting.
The painting is filled with such color and detail
whereas my measly man-made image
is nothing but a chicken-scratch approximation of the masterpiece
that was at one time directly in front of my eyes.

(The best place for a painting to hang!)

And I hate myself so much
because I'm not as good an artist as Reality.

Reality, the prodigy.
Reality, with its effortless strokes
that make every moment into
a Rembrandt Now

How prolific!
Moment after moment
Another masterpiece!

The Universe, Reality's gallery,
ever-expanding to contain the ever-expanding body of work
hatched from the ever-expanding Mind of the Invisible Genius!

While I, with my Crayola
lash out at the canvas;
a baby jealous. . .
. . .not fit for apprenticeship. . .

I am not worthy to hold the palette.
I am not worthy to clean the brushes.
I am not an original.
I am only a copy.
Throw me away.
Throw me away.