Writing Assignment #3

I stand on a cobbled street corner. Searching for a key, which belongs to my currently locked subconscious, I wish to open the ornamented door of secrets so that I may lounge on my cushioned values, lay on my floor of thoughts and nestle myself in my soft and tasseled carpet of memories. Examining each fiber and each leg of my chairs of emotion, upholstered with the finest silks of foreign influence. Yet, no key is found, this door remains closed, beyond the reach of my hungry fingers.

My introverted concentration now extends to gaze at my settings. My body lazily stands weighted by each small raindrop; each one holds its own fragment of dull light reflecting little rays of grey. They delicately fall on each object, gracefully accessorizing boisterous gardens. As I stand it is difficult to refrain from humming, “Rain drops on roses…” each petal holds tribute to the Vontrap family.

Each little droplet that falls on the cobbles splashes eloquently, singing the sweet melody of hydration and gesturing for the sprout green in newly moist earth. Yet, as I watch the pooling of small prisms I picture each raindrop as a soul. Each representing the falling of a life, they descend and journey from the beginning only to crash. Are these the lives of those in Darfur, knowing nothing but fierce winds and cold chills before their anticlimactic splash? Or are they old and seasoned drops whose end is knowingly met and accepted?

The wind, a man whispering his stories from far away, carefully cradles these souls until their final crash. They are his burden and his gift. And as he continues, he takes each of their stories and whispers them through the leaves of trees and blades of grass for all who choose to listen. Shall I fall victim to the entrancing rhythm of foreign lands whose culture and customs are so alien and appealing. His rhythm is like a blues song whose soul is rich with the emotions and feelings of the composer elaborating on the richness of experience and exploration.

I want to loose myself in the pitter-patter of solemn rain, swim in its seriousness and soak in its cheer. Leave be the barrier to my undiscovered desires and succumb to the damp and aged song of dancing waterfall only to be released when each thirst has been quenched. We shall waltz across the lakes and hills, tango over windowsills and quioscs until each and all have had their share.