To say we die is a misnomer, an illusion. Abrahamic religion promises eternal life; Buddhism, Hinduism, Zen, promise continuation until absorption. Much of the spiritualism people explore is meant to answer that fear of dying. To live vibrant and bright, in the shadow of death. But physics too promises that linear time is nothing but a construct. Our past line is set, a few steps back in time but never disappearing. Our future, splayed strings to be chosen and sewn to the past. Because we can't turn around doesn't mean it stops existing. There's something beautiful then about this possibility. I am not a blip before disappearance, a soon to be forgotten spot on a rock ball. But a line drawing its way through time along with everyone I know and see. Instead of blackness at the end of life, I have the promise of a painting, a masterwork a lifetime in the making, forever pressed into the fabric of spacetime like a painting hanging in an eternal Louvre. In this world there is hope then. We can choose for our magnum opus to be better every time we wake up; we can put skill and passion in our brushstroke. I choose to make this life the most beautiful piece it can be, one that paints in painful crushing deep blues, and blinding weightless summer yellows. Make an art that shines on it's own merit. One that enhances those around it, that basks and celebrates in its self-assuredness. A painting complete, lacking no touchup, or adornment. A standalone and a perfect complement to the collection.