Past, present and future

Time and life are a funny thing: it us like catching and getting off a train that is always running.
Different realities and dimensions interweaving:
when you are young you think about the future and it is said that the future belongs to the young. When you are old you are on the future you were thinking and planning when you were young: you think about the past and the past belongs to those who lived.
Life goes by and inexorably one day each one of us will belong to the past and that is when we are getting off the running train (don't be mistaken, this train never stops and does not wait for anybody)
Future generations might even remember your good or bad acts of when you were living your present.
The present?
Well, this is a beauty: future and past are as good as how you live your present.
It is the present that dictates how your future is going to be, but above all it is the present that determines whether the past is worth remembering!

Have a nice day, ......
hmm.....
I meant "have a nice present"

Seeing is believing ?

When something inspires me, I see it already painted on the canvas; then I know it is time to paint. I walk ........and look around me ..........and I am thinking 

"I could paint that with a contrast here and there"

or

"I think it would be nice to paint those house with a shadow along the windows"

or

"few storkes with my palette knife and this would be finished in no time"

Even before I fall asleep it is easy to paint in my mind. I just sort of see it unfolding before my eyes. Very often I see what I want to paint directly on my canvas but sometimes, I also think that the painting that came to me as a pretty vision was not a good idea afterall. Still it is as if I am wearing a special pair of glasses: I see already made paintings.
Sometimes I just feel so frustrated when a painting has not come out the way I was imagining it would look like. I always ask myself whether Claude Monet ever experienced failure. Did Vincent ever felt a work was a good idea and soon after it all went sour? Somehow I just think that great masters never failed but then I know, that most bad paintings never made it to a wall anywhere. Very much like when someone take a picture of us and when soon after you look at it on the screen you delete it immediately. Unconsciously you think that that picture was not the way you would like the posterity to remember you by.
You decide which part of yourself should be exposed or what to pass on but in the end people see things and then decide to believe what they see.

During the long pauses of the night

This morning at 3am I woke up.
Everybody were fast asleep, all was quite and still.
I could not get back to sleep.
I briefly went into the garden and the air was fresh and clean, the leaves were gently rustling while a feeble moonshine was creating vague shades.
There was a pleasant stillness a bit eery but nice and misterious.
The stars slowly turned their gazes towards me and I felt observed.
They seemed to say "why are you not resting?"
While searching for an answer I sat down on the floor.
All was at peace, just another night like the millions that came before. Soon the morning would have broken and felt these sensations will all dissipate into nothing. All will be absorbed and lost in the mists of time. I made my way back to bed as a new day was about to start and I ardently wished the daylight to find me asleep.
I now was breathing the winds of time.