THE PAINTER - by jrqc (creative writing)

He woke up. His face showing the lines that life has provided him with, yet with the gift of wisdom and serenity. He has one of those faces that evoke trust and a pair of light brown eyes  roofed up by gre-bushy eyebrows. One can easily get lost in pleasure when staring into those eyes that encapsulate calmness and sternness. He was like that, and what you see is what you get. Just simplicity. That morning, his heart beat with exhilaration as eagerness invaded him and his mind felt like streams of water pervaded in colors, his thoughts scattered yet focused on the horizon of his emotions. It was one of those moments in which inspiration moved him to the core letting him know that something needed to be done so as to quench the thirst of his creativity. It was an impulse that would take up  his mind and wouldn't abandon his host until the task was completed. He certainly enjoyed the ritual in which these feelings overpowered him since it made him feel alive, and that after all, there was a purpose, and this was his. 

Countless times he had wonder what would there be if there wasn't any means to somehow pour a little of his heart and soul through splashes of colors. He supposed that he would feel incomplete, that he simply would be a walking corpse pretending to be human. Yes, that is how he thought it would be. Without the escape that his own craft offered him, he would be lost within. Now, he undoubtedly, had a feeling that all was lost in this world, that there wasn't anything worth salvaging except for his easel, canvas and a set of good quality brushes his sister gave him on a birthday. Besides that, his bleak outlook of the world secluded him as an individual. He simply didn't want to participate in meaningless mundane activities that would, in a manner of speaking, deprive him of his well-being, of his human soul condition.

As the steam of the kettle let him now the water was ready for a mandatory morning coffee, the images that conjured in his mind shook him a bit. Images that wanted to be transferred into a canvas, desired to be interpreted in a different way, no matter how, just be made into something else. Hence, he proceeded to unlatch the windows  inviting the wind to dance with the curtains. He couldn't help but marvel at the stunning blue sky that reigned that morning. It was that sea of blue that invited him to let himself go for a little while and, without hesitation, he packed up some fruit but most importantly, his painting utensils, basically the extension of his being. 

Once outside, his body sensed the colors and scent and of nature as the wind murmured its tune. What more was worth out there except for this natural solitary beauty? Nothing. He belonged there, he was a part of it and most importantly it was that crucial beauty that made him move forward. 

Brush in hand, he would scan the view, he would take in as much as he could from it all, and at times it was as if he was directing an orchestra of celestial music as every brush stroke gave life to a new perspective. His movements were in compass with that of the wind, with that of the tune chirped by the birds and there existed nothing more but the muse of nature and himself, who performed the duty of letting himself merged with the ground his bare feet were standing on and with everything that surrounded him in that moment.  

written by jrqc