An artist stands before a blank canvas, anticipating how the greatest blues of this planet—the sky and the ocean—can exist together in a single frame. The brush rises, heavy with pigment, ready to tinge the untouched surface in pursuit of imitation.
With every stroke, the canvas feels its pure surface become covered in clashing colors.
“Trust the process,” the artist whispers, blending and retouching the pigments until they resemble the crystal blue of the horizon.
The burden of the brush
There is always a question of who we are: the artist making the choices, or the muse being shaped.
No one wants to be the one who endures every stroke of messy color. No one wants to grapple with the frightening thought of what they might eventually become. We find ourselves wishing to avoid the brush entirely, desperate to remain untouched.
No one wants to be the canvas.
Unable to hold the brush yourself, you shut your eyes tight. You wonder whether your life is even yours to begin with, as an artist—unaware of your resistance—continues to shape you into their idea of perfection. You cannot protest, because you sense a truth: Without the burden of color, without the tension of change, you remain empty.
Is this what life truly means—to endure the mess of creation in service of a meaning we do not yet understand?
The necessity of the mess
Most of us spend our lives trying to prevent even a smudge on our canvas. We find the weight of the brush agonizing, deforming. We yearn for an easy life—one unstained by struggle—believing that staying “clean” is the only way to be happy. Anything complicated or uncertain becomes something to avoid.
But by running away, we miss the opportunity for bliss. Hiding from the brush is not salvation; it is stagnation.
The desire for a painless life contradicts our nature. From an evolutionary perspective, we exist because those before us learned how to navigate difficulty rather than escape it. We are descendants of problem-solvers, not problem-avoiders. Our biology demands motion and change.
The paradox of purpose
This paradox is captured by a line from Adventure Time: “To live life, you need problems. If you get everything you want the minute you want it, then what’s the point of livin’?”
It is a controversial idea (although said before in different ways). Some argue against it; others dismiss it entirely, claiming that the chemical high we feel after solving a problem is too shallow to be meaningful. But they miss the point. When a win is handed to us without the climb, the pleasure fades quickly—and the damage is permanent. We are left with a loss of pursuit, an empty space that no amount of comfort can fill.
This is the universe’s quiet joke on humanity. We are baited with the promise of ease, while our biology demands struggle.
Once the weight of the brush is lifted, the artist steps away. The return is uncertain, but the colors remain—settling, drying, resisting the wind. You feel different now. Heavier, perhaps, but not with resentment. The weight comes from having endured something, from knowing you have been touched.
What lingers is not the pain itself, but the quiet pride of having faced it. Overcoming the obstacle was not easy, but it was yours.
After the brush is gone, the outcome is never the same.
Some of us remain unfinished for most of our lives, yet still feel grateful for how far we have come. Others grieve what was taken, or what was forced upon them. The grief is real. The anger is valid. At the very least, it proves that the experience belonged to you—that the emotions are yours, even if the choices were not.
Submitting to the artist does not always lead to clarity. Sometimes we learn how to hold our own brushes. Most of the time, we learn nothing at all.
But even then, the canvas is no longer empty. CS
Nicollete S. Bayaras, a 19-year-old nursing student at Saint Gabriel’s College in Kalibo, Aklan, says her engagement with life and philosophy reflects her desire to understand human experiences, relationships, and her personal growth.
