Moths, Songs, and Raindrops.

Dreams are coming to me today; dreams that I can’t quite grasp now but that still stick to the back of my head. They’re like moths, chasing the beams of light from my eyes; bumping and flopping against me, their little bodies failing to penetrate the thick glass that separates truth and perception. Maybe when I put the blinds down and go to sleep, leave the window open a crack to allow the night air passage, the moths will get through…for now, I can only observe the ideas and write about the color of their wings.

It must be an exciting life, being a raindrop. You’re formed in the upper atmosphere—if I remember what Jill warbled happily to me, it’s the troposphere—and exist as a loose collection of ice crystals. You form slowly, gradually over time, fragile and yet undamaged because of the gentle quality of your surroundings. Fellow groups of ice shards bump into you and you grow, maturing and changing over time, maturing.

Then, finally, you get too big for your surroundings, too old and weary to the world that surrounds you and you begin to fall, fall fast. Your beauty dissipates; you warp and meld into yourself, structures melting and liquefying as the grayness drops away and the ground sneaks closer. Unseen forces pull at you and you stretch, falling down, down, down until you finally crash against the ground and splatter, far away from your home…

…it should be a tragic thing, the death of a raindrop, but people don’t cry over them. Maybe it’s because we know that the water isn’t gone. It soaks into the ground and nourishes plants and us, by extension; it runs into lakes and oceans and trickles under our feet, deep down in the darkness where rivers silently flow. But even if the rain gurgles in the river Styx, it always manages to make its way back into the sky again. It evaporates and drifts above the harsh, hard surface of the earth, leaving the pollution and the pain behind. It’s only then, when all the pain has bleached you clean, that the process can begin again.

I’ve been alternating between the raincloud and the falling for some time now, but maybe it’s time I went back to the earth again. Sherry’s mentioned classes in the District after Tanukashi finally takes over, and I’ve offered to help out. It’ll be nice to teach something…I think I’ll help with music classes and philosophy classes, if there are any. Probably not right off the bat, but later on there might be. We’ve got to establish a basis first; people have to have the words and the math before they can understand the rhymes and the measures. I’ll wait, and then when things calm down, I’ll be there to watch the newer, cleaner, more hopeful excitement. Who knows…maybe I’ll even help to cause some revolutionary thoughts. That would be something, wouldn’t it?

I wonder what it would be like to live as a song…translated, transcribed and endless, reincarnated through the vibrating discords of foreign throats, braying in unison and sometimes in different keys…