I am but a single bead of moisture, clinging to the sky, pondering my descent.
Have you ever considered the plight of raindrops?
The grand illusion of purpose—only to fall and evaporate.
To land on the asphalt, only to be splashed by an indifferent foot,
or to nourish a flower that will bloom, wither, and become compost.
Is it irony? Or perhaps satire of the universe's design?
The puddle reflects my existential thoughts—assuming it has thoughts of its own.
"What lies beyond, dear friend?" I ask the mirroring illusion.
It ripples, mocking my depth with its shallow movements.
Join me in this absurd dance through echoing alleys
or perhaps escape to the umbra of the clouds
where reflections cease to be illusions.