writing, writing, writing

Apparently, we are supposed to be doing creative writing. But what makes writing creative? Is it the act of reconstructing truth? Re-shaping one's memory to tell a story? And if so, does that altered memory become truth? How would one know? What is its purpose? To entertain? Or to enlighten and evoke thought? Or to challenge truth and its perceived existence?

Rome is amazingly beautiful and incredibly hot; my skin has been covered in a film of sweat since I've arrived. It is grand in a completely different manner than Paris or Seattle. When I first came, it was the dirtiness of the city that struck me, but now, that dirtiness becomes Rome and makes the history more genuine--the sweat and grime accumulated over the ages as direct proof of the power struggles and betrayals. My favorite part is simply wandering the city, and the contemplation new sights induce. Seeing how Romans and Italians viewed the world and how they operate today forces me to reconsider my own lens through which I see the world. Standing in front of the Curia Julia (the Senate House of the Roman Republic) comparing and contrasting the Roman and American governments is more vivid, and more intriguing, than reading a book, and makes the intangible reality of the past easier to invoke. The marble is colder, the purple-tinged sunsets more beautiful, and the freshness of the fruits more apparent.

Perhaps what makes me such an lamentable creative writer is my fascination with and adherence to truth. Is creative writing not an act of escaping reality? An attempt to reshape the past in one's desired perfection--an act that scars my very soul.