The Writings of a Man Who Has the Thoughts of a Human
This is not a story, this is not a tale, this is a life. A life that is lived in a blink of an eye, a life as long as that of a drop of dew as it falls from the petal of a rose to the cold, hard, concrete ground of our world. This is a love. A love that will never be felt, but already has. A love to be lost as the dew hits the ground in a last frozen splash of glory. Do I know love? There is a humming from the lights above, do they love me? Yes. A rock is dropped from an 8 story building. It shatters. Did the rock know love? Or did it know life? As the words of my thoughts are transformed into splotches of ink on the surface of a dead tree I can╒t help but wonder if the smallest particles of this ink feel the life and love that I do. Do we all not strive for the same basic loves? Does the wind not blow to turn the windmill? Does the wind love the windmill? As I replay the dew drop falling in my mind I cannot help but imagine it reversing and falling upward from its splash back onto its rose petal bed. Roses, beautiful, colorful, but is color nothing more than the reflected light of an object that may be a dream? And what of a dream? How do we see our dreams and hopes if we see them with our eyes closed? When no light can enter to be reflected off the love that the living dew drop has for the rose in the dream of a thing that doesn╒t exist. How is it that people think that the dew drop can be caught, and held. Once it is held and drunk, it is no longer kissing the rose and is no longer a dew drop. ╥What am I╙, this is a game in which clues are given to the identity of something that doesn╒t exist. Is our life and love and dreams not part of this game? Or are they real things that can be held and loved like the puppy that follows you home? A man once said ╥I think, therefore I am╙ What? I can stop thinking yet I still am. Am what? Am I nothing nothing but the dream of a drop of dew on its descent into fate? No. I love. I live. I dream. I hope. I am.
