The Short Lived Identity of the Water Drop

At a certain point the mist of the cloud condenses into a solitary drop. It can be counted as such. It has it's own place in the world. I wonder what the drop thinks as it hurls toward the earth. It's life flashes before it's eyes. It is particularly lucky if it can land in a spot where no other drop had gone or will come. It can stay aloof from the stream for a short while longer.

But either it will fall into a puddle and disappear, or onto a windshield to be smeared into oblivion. Perhaps it will land between the blades of grass and be lost in the soil, or it will hit the hot blacktop and sizzle back up into the air in no unitary form. It is either cast into the sameness of the river, or sent misting back to the sky. IT will never to be the same drop again. Its identity is lost. Its surface tension, the only glue that held it together is gone.

To be a drop you must stand apart. To be a drop you must hold your shape. Does the drop take joy in its solitary or long to be part of the ocean, or the void?

The first story - Alegory of the Unwilling Frog

Whisper said the frog. Better yet, make no sound. In this way the grass will not be disturbed with the vibration. The leaves of broad grass do vibrate with the sounds of things and add to the hum of the day.

I despise the humming. It reminds me of being a tad pole with naught but a tail. I could feel the vibration of my limbs forming and budding. They grew to legs and that lead me to hop. What joy it was to only swim. No, I despise those vibrations of change. Nothing good can come from disturbing the grass.

The frog knows little. He sees only the past. A vibration, a change, a wisp of hope - these are what life is about. For something like the grass a glimmer, a reflection of sound are all that it can hope to muster. The inanimate world longs for something to animate it. How sad it is when a creature of volition resolves itself to an object, becomes a rock.