I was born in a whisper high among the cirrus clouds. Tethered gently to my sisters, we danced in the thin breeze. The world below shimmered like molten glass, enticing and mysterious.
With a promise fulfilled, gravity called. I felt the drop as more than a descent; it was a return. Each millimeter downward carried the weight of countless unspoken tales, echoed from the surface of the sun to this precipice.
Slipping between vapors and breezes, I ponder if raindrops have thoughts when intermingling with the routine elegance of birds. Perhaps in their echo, a laugh or sorrow — unable to be traced back here.
Upon hitting the earthy embrace, I felt fractures. Excitement rushed anew in countless directions. To merge and collide, to create ripples in a forgotten pond or seep into thirsting soil — every interaction is rebirth, undistorted by uncertainty.
Beyond the catharsis lies continuity, unbroken; whispers between grains of dampened sand, narrating stories of their own. Sources benevolent with knowing tongues. Here, I linger hence as nutrients entwine with ephemeral.
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