When. Where. What.


I saw them falling today. Cold and brash and furious. Making sure to poke some holes, rock some boats, wreck some shores. Oh! They were loud, I’m sure they wanted to be. They sounded infuriated, almost vengeful.


They seemed to be mad that I was merely just observing them in their misery. And so they made sure to thoroughly splash muddy waters all over my skinny thighs. Roiling like angry spirits and hissing like a venomous viper, they reigned in the calm of night. My face began to glisten and my eyes pained. They shut my eyelids with their constant rapid hits. A battle. A non-defensible battle.


They kept knocking on the roofs and on the windows. Loudly, very loudly. Begging. Asking. Pleading. Crying. It’s hard to tell that last bit though, because that’s all they are made up of, Water. How they tried to get inside, to have an escapade, to not take part in the cycle.


The Water cycle.


Water is life. What about the water life?


A most beautiful scenery of the ocean with its rhythmic pulses going unmatched by every other piece of nature. Shining it in its glorious vastness, its dreamy surface, its metronomic wave music. It forges its own sounds and kindles its own symphony. A perfect haven.


Therein are myriads and myriads of water drops. A plethora of water families. A most perfect showcase of reflection, they’ve spent their days getting filmed with an angle shot of the sunset in the horizon. Once in a while, they get to sneak up on a whale’s blowhole and as it forcefully expels air, they get to fly and see the world in a new and exciting perspective. So they’ll keep seeking for breaching whales to relive an admittedly fulfilling experience and they’ll mistakenly land on shore. They’ll come to a realization, shudder in fear and quickly go back into the sea, a tide I suppose.


The sun will set, the dark will crawl in and they’ll sigh. A satisfactory sigh. They’ve thoroughly enjoyed their day. They plan to hold onto ships and have a cruise tomorrow. A voyage perhaps. “The adventures of Adam’s Ale!” they’ll say. It fills them with much exhilaration and as it becomes overwhelming, they drown in sleep. They were exhausted, they didn’t even realize it.


As the sunrise becomes imminent, they begin to look out. It’s a beautiful sunrise. They wonder why most film makers only have interest in the sunsets. It’s all beautiful to them and they love to savor. Genuinely, they take it all in.


The day gradually unfolds into a hot bath. Heating, scorching, burning. With every casting of rays, they feel weaker, lighter, lesser. Amidst the pandemonium, they are made to slowly rise. Up and above they go. Drifting away into the atmosphere, quite helplessly.


They learn that they can be vapor, that they can cease to be visible. And that’s cool, right? You just don’t demand what to feel however. They have a very poignant experience of condensation and stay days floating in the atmosphere as clouds.


Ah, there is a brute! Why is there always a brute? This guy blows his gut out, the kind that comes with massive spitting. He has the clouds moving at his mercy and has plenty fun while at it.


Go. Stop. Goooooo. Go. Go. Gooo. Stop.


See? Fun. Plenty fun. Wind is his ugly name.
Two things. Home. And hell! Will you shut your blowhole!


They desperately yearn to break away. To have bliss a grasp away.


They get it. They are let loose and they begin to fall. Rapidly. It doesn’t give the slightest feel of liberty. Just but a very cruel fall. From one layer of the atmosphere to the next, they garner momentum and anger. It infuriates them that they don’t bear a say as to what form they take, what direction they go, what place they reside, what speed they move at… What sort of thighs they exert their anger on.


Power. They crave for some power. I let them have their way with my thighs.


Calmed albeit slightly, they trickle away with the runoff. They land at sea. At home. Inside a most perfect definition of bliss. They let loose, they are excited, they are happy.


And just when they begin to think they are safe, it begins all over again. Up they go, down they descend.


Evaporation, transpiration, condensation precipitation and runoff.


That damn water cycle!

D_ottie

Author D_ottie

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