Rain

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Its raining. Water... source of life. Flowing. Water falling. Water moving.
Water sliding down my face, dripping from my chin. Tears, water from within
us. The water that is life, that which flows from our eyes. Life flows from
our eyes, in grief or pain or sorrow or relief. When we cry, we lose a
little more of that life. With each tear we die a little.

Why do I hurt? What is the purpose of hurt? The hurt tears at me,
destroying me, reducing me. With every hurt, I lose a part of myself, my
soul dieing within the shell that was made to contain it. I die while the
shell lives on.

I am not this person which you see before you. I am more. I am I. The shell
that contains me is no more me that the glass that contains the water.

Water falling. Water released from its glass, it drips and splatters.
Without its glass, the water seeks out other water to join with. It runs
until it finds it, pooling in great oceans and lakes. A cycle. Water
leaving, returning. Atomizing, each independent as they are carried to the
clouds. Then falling again, to either a new lake, river, or even a new
glass. Is this why we hurt, to make us continue the cycle? We hurt so we
will seek out comfort with the whole.

But it is the whole that hurts. I fear the whole. I fear what I will find
when I leave this shell. He tells me not to fear, doesn't want me to have
to fear, but I do. He can not understand. No one can understand. I am
alone. I am one, alone. I am the one being that is myself, and so I am
alone because there are no other myselves. We are all alone.

I used to laugh, but I no longer can find the strength. It takes all that I
have merely to go on, to exist, to keep within my shell lest I face what I
fear. I hide, frightened by what lays beyond that which I know. I shrink
away from the darkness, from the abyss, but I also fear the light. I am
trapped, lost everywhere, safe no where.

Blood. I fear blood. Blood and tears. They are the same. Life. I fear them
all. I fear, yet I embrace them. I cry, alone, knowing I will never be able
to truly understand them. Unlike water, I shall never flow.

White rose... cuts me. Pain. Blood flows from me, stealing a bit of life.
Blood flowing. Blood moving. Blood stains the rose, maring the perfect
white. The flower is deflowered.

Its raining. Life flows. Flows. Flow. Water flows. Blood flows. Tears flow.



I do not.

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Copyright 1998 to Charles Drake.