Creative Writing Attempt

This freaks me out to write this, because this is completely not my style, but here is my attempt at creative writing... let me know what you think. If it is negative feedback, I will just choose not to publish it :) But in all seriousness, if you think this was worthwhile, let me know and I might try it more often. This (very short) story isn't exactly autobiographical but it has elements of truth woven into it. I tried not to be overtly spiritual in it but still wanted it to communicate a point... so yea, enjoy, let me know what you thought.

Enough

Worn out. That’s how he felt that evening, sitting on the front steps. It wasn’t the well worn, classic feel of an antique; no, at 22 he was too young for that. Everything he thought should have filled up his reserves instead brought him to this point. It shouldn’t be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

His work was what he loved. Fulfilling, meaningful, bringing life to others and himself. Yet something was missing. He couldn’t put his finger on it but something was lacking, some part of him was trying too hard to grasp onto a reality that can never be seen.

So he sat.

And waited.

Not sure what he was waiting on, he sat and stared. Stared across a scene of rolling hills and small villages dotting the country-side. This wasn’t America the beautiful, it was Italy the ancient. And he felt it. The oldness was palpable.

In America, if you wander into the hills of Kentucky, or Tennessee or even the mountains of Virginia, it felt different. Newer, like there was promise still waiting for those who sought it with all their might. Problem was, most sought and rarely found the elusive American dream. But there was still that hope.

Here, the country he gazed across had the feel of sameness. He somehow felt that the town that he now gazed at in the distance could have just as easily been an outpost for ancient Rome. 2000 years ago farmers likely gathered olives and grapes from these Tuscan hills much like they did now.

Perhaps some Roman soldier, a veteran of many campaigns, used the same ancient farmhouse, where he now sat, as his retirement home. A place to grow old. To enjoy peace.

Peace.

That was what he sought. Peace from the thoughts, the fears that pestered him. The questions that he knew would never be answered, could never be answered in this life. So he sat and waited and wanted the day to come where his faith became sight.

He smiled dryly. “Only 22, what am I thinking? I don’t even know.”

So he sat.

And waited.

The colors changed as the sun sank across the sky. Not even close to dinner time, yet the golden hour had already hit. Trees became holy canopies, glowing in the setting sun; the grass became an inviting carpet, soft and lush; everything gradually transformed into something different under the influence of a dying sun.

What was once a simple Tuscan country scene became something more. It was filled with life. Not the life of living things, of people or animals, but it felt alive. It glowed with a warmth that seeped into all things, even into him.

His thoughts continued to follow their meandering path yet instead of angst they were now consumed with the beauty before him. He pulled out a camera and then put it back away. It could never capture this, he thought.

Beauty. Something far deeper than the models plastered across the bus’s and city walls. Even deeper than the beauty of the girl who had taken a piece of his heart. Beauty that a radiant bride begins to hint at, or a breathtaking sunset begins to touch, or a soaring aria makes you feel. Yes, this true beauty that he beheld was something you feel.

So he sat.

And waited.

Refreshed. As if life was gradually being poured back in. Yet none of the questions were answered. But he was ok with that. None of the proof was laid out, concrete in front of his eyes, able to touch. Yet somehow it was. Somehow the beauty laid in front of him was proof. Enough. For now, enough.