Narrative - Life with Escher :: Personal Narrative Essays

Narrative - Life with Escher If you were to diagram my life, it would look real much like a hook oning of Escher. Sometimes I get like Im the hand thats drawing a hand thats drawing itself. some other times I feel like Im locked in one of those inescapable paradox cages. But most of all, I feel like Im on the ever-ascending stairway that never goes anywhere.Lifes canvas was not designed to be calico by human hands. Constrained by the limitations of space and time, crippled by the human inability to see the entire painting at once, and endue with an uncanny lack of judgement, I smear and smudge what I cannot go back and fix. At the same time, I worked hard to render my induce image impeccably clear without the faintest idea of who I unfeignedly was or the realization that I was constantly in flux, changing as frequently as a lonely flower bends before the staff office of the wind. Once I began to find outward stasis, my inward person grieved that I was not in the end what I wanted to be at the beginning. My attempts were futile.I then looked to the Maker of the canvas and the Master Painter to draw something more perfect, more beautiful upon my heart and frame. But do I put d witness the brush and lay aside our pencils? No. I stupidly scribble all over the masterpiece of my Creator. Even if He asks me to stop (I only hear him if I havent destroyed the ears He miscellaneous in) I stubbornly confound His every stroke. Worse, I think I made an improvement.My life is also like Eschers paradox cage. This cage is of my own drawing. I thought I was building a palace for myself, exactly it restricted my movement. My own creation bound me, kept me from following the sweet words of the Master Painter. He erased it for me once, but I was dumb decent to paint it back into existence. The funny thing, of course, is that its just like the paradox cage. It doesnt really keep me inside. I just think it does. From my perspective, I have the color that its an impreg nable fortress when its only a fake facade that take up hold no one in, rendered so by the Masters nail-pierced hands. In the end, I choose to stay inside, though if I listened close, Id hear the words of the Painter, directional me through the illusion and onward in my life.