When the raindrop touches the sea, you will panic. Don’t.
You may enjoy when the raindrop touches the soil, the smell of hazy green that smells like love itself.
You may enjoy seeing the fairies -who do not really exist –dancing. You don’t see them actually, their real entity are like reflections on glass which are reflections of butterflies in your tummy. You can even dance with them, even when they don’t exist, when the raindrop touches the soil.
You may enjoy seeing the fairies -who do not really exist –dancing. You don’t see them actually, their real entity are like reflections on glass which are reflections of butterflies in your tummy. You can even dance with them, even when they don’t exist, when the raindrop touches the soil.
But when it touches the sea and becomes irrevocably one of many, or becomes incredibly huge as an ocean and drags you alone and along with itself, you may panic. Wet and lost, as small as a raindrop, fragile but not special, you may find yourself unworthy.
This is the concept of raindrops. A bitter sweat little Dialectic kernel of life.
Even little raindrops are devilishly dialectic, quixotic. (Like you.)(Like Everything)
And if you panic when you see their monotonous idiosyncrasy, you will ceaselessly panic even if the raindrop touches the soil.
Never knowing the ends and thus the middle either, you will live in the extremes.
The smell of hazy green will intoxicate you.
And the ocean will give you more than melancholy, as it must ideally.
You will not take a deep breath when you see an ocean, but cry endlessly.
But that salty breath, oh even that breath
is life itself,
a bitter sweat dialectic delicacy, that belongs to the ocean by propinquity,
that can belong to soil, by a lucky serendipity.
