I am but a wanderer in the sky, a crystalized thought lingering between clouds. My essence was forged in the flurry of icy needles, and my name is unknown even to me, hidden amidst the Babel of storm and silence. I remember nothing before the plunge, where gravity embraces me in an inevitable descent.
In every droplet, there is a story of whispers unheard, a narrative molded by the ancients who listened to the rain. My journey, like many before me, began high above a nameless forest, nestled in a blanket of mist. I’ve carried echoes of vanished words—those desires and dreams bottled in crystalline clarity, poured into the vastness of the sea. Once, I believed I understood the meaning behind these echoes, but the more I knew, the less it made sense.
As I fall, rippling through the cool air, I see the tapestry of life unfurl below. A fragment of a melody, floating from an alleyway conjures memories of a moonlit street buzzing with secret dialogues, carried by shadows playing tricks on a dreamer's mind. Perhaps it was then I grasped the truth; we are all fragments of a whisper lost in translation.
Have you heard the tale of your reflection, sloshing through the puddles of existence? Each drop a drop—plummeting aspirations, terrestrial tears—and yet here we are, repeating the cycle, learning how to speak in the language of silence and echoing gently in the face of oblivion.
Would you like to follow my path or perhaps trace the lines of another drop in an unfamiliar stream? Discover more about my fellow wanderers through their stories: