As I descend from the clouded womb, I ponder existence in its most crystalline form. Is it the storm that shapes me, or the earth that cradles my fall? In each moment I perceive, a universe in microcosm splinters and rejoins in the symphony of the journey.
Raindrop: The singular note in the vast orchestration of nature, do I mourn the briefness of my plunge? Or revel in the rapturous plunge into life's unpredictable embrace?
Do I merge with the river, a fleeting relic of a thunderous sky, or seep into the quiet soil, stitching together stories of roots and horizons? The process may conceal its mysteries, yet every drop knows its song, a tune tender and haunting.
Streams whisper of their odyssey, each tumbling, forging paths anew, their echo a gentle reminder of each journey's bespoke purpose.
A memory quenched, yet resonant: the melody of one descanting drop, each impact a resonance— a harmony of silences and entreaties, a crescendo unfelt yet ubiquitous.