Wrinting Assignment Draft #3

I stand on a cobbled street corner, searching for the key to my locked subconscious. I wish to open the ornamented door of secrets so that I may lounge on my cushioned values, lie on my floor of thoughts, and nestle myself in my soft, tasseled carpet of memories. 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 surroundings, the uneven corner, on which I stand, nearby houses and steady street signs. My body lazily stands weighted by each small raindrop that has been carried by this small windy tempest. Each drop holds its own fragment of dull light, reflecting little rays of grey. They delicately fall on the whooshing cars, and gracefully accessorize boisterous gardens. As I stand it is hard not to hum, “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 sprouting of green in newly moist earth. Yet, as I watch the pooling of small prisms I picture each raindrop as the falling of a life, a soul. Are these like the lives of those in Darfur, knowing nothing but fierce winds and cold chills before their anticlimactic splash? Or are they the old and seasoned drops, whose end is knowingly met and accepted?

The wind, a man whispering his stories from far away carefully cradles these watery souls until their final crash. They are his burden and his gift. 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 his entrancing stories of distant lands? The rhythm of his stories carries like a blues song, whose soul is rich with the emotions and sentiments of the composer, elaborating on the richness of experience and exploration.