Destiny is like water it has a defined path but many different smaller routes to complete that path.Each route with varying intensities and unquestionable purpose.
Streams flow hoping to reach the endless blues of the ocean. But the stream is more than that; it is home to an infinite number of significant, emotionally involved drops. Each wanting to taste the salt of endless experience, to get within it, and be its carrier and finally leaving it behind, back where it found it, to be engulfed by another hungry drop, to go on the pilgrimage all over again. To new terrains, new drops pushing it from behind, new conversations with the banks, new rocks to smoothen, new fish to see.
Some drops are ambitious, they want to explore differently before they meet their final abode of this journey in a graying cloud. These brave few leave the stream and go lower to explore the world below the surface. As they go lower and start to brown, to fit in this new environment. They see the soil change color, hospitality; some let them pass right through, some let them stay there for a while for a quick assessment of the surrounding, converse with other drops with unlike purposes. Taking a moment to appreciate the importance of the purpose but never compare it to its own. After thanking that welcoming soil community it leaves back it the search of the beyond, the bed rock. The stories the drop heard of the bed rock, the silent pristine stagnation of thought, time and purpose pulled him towards to her. As it enters her sanctum he is humbled. He realizes this is more than just a place to buy time from the stagnation of the flow, to be stuck in an endless mundane journey, devoid of challenge and change; this is a place to find the true meaning of being a water. A place where water has no immediate purpose, but to wait for the right moment and then reappear to perform his task and move to the next level of its path. While he lies in the darkness answering these questions and creating new questions to answer later, he bickers with fellow dreamers about the other off the mountain droplets who fear the tranquility of the bed rock, fear darkness and detest the smell of rejuvenating soil. But he doesn’t mean all that he says. He dispenses and subscribes to these judgmental and highly biased views just to fit in with the other dreamers. His only fear is to be left behind and abandoned, to be that one drop who went too far and was islanded by land.
These thoughts start to get the better of him and he decides it is time to move back to the surface to embrace time once again. To prove to himself that he still has what it takes to be a water. With little help from what he believes to be an invisible rope sent from the above allowing him to rise to the moment of self evaluation. On his way he finds like minded drops going to the beyond to keep the beyond company. As he reaches closer to the darker soil that separates the two worlds, the two surfaces, he hears a voice, a voice of help, in a language he doesn’t speak but a tone he relates to. Being the drop he is, he volunteers to help, he doesn’t know what he has to do, but he knows he can help, even the slightest of help could ease the pain in that tone, he thinks.
As he leaves the soil and enters this tunnel into a bustling system of drops in dressed in different colors he sees queues, elevators, drops going down, drops moving up, drops performing tasks. All drops with smiles, some even with dimples. He gets filled in about this new majestic system the drops work for in all joy. It took him to learn the dialect of the tree. He worked at different colors at different periods of time, excelled at most and grew fond of a few. That one green colored drop his favorite. He always smelled a fresh sweet smell from the place she stationed herself, by the other green drops. For him, that aroma came from her and the other green drops sat next to her to admire the perfect perfume she exudes.
Time flows and he has soaked as much as he can for this journey, it is now time for him to return to the graying cloud and dole out these experiences so that he can return to carry out another journey and gloss a few more colors, colors he has only heard of in the closed confines of the graying clouds.
He bids farewell to the other drops that have will serve, speak and bloom the language of the tree for a while longer before finding their way into a graying cloud. He can’t muster the courage to go and meet that one green drop he has grown fond off. He believes that the universe will unite the two drops in time. And this that thought waits for the rope to reappear.
Waiting for the invisible rope to be his chariot for the one last time in this journey he sees his entire iota existence fly by, the bed rock, the clay, the sand, the hostile rocks that refused to budge the language of the tree and that one special drop.
The graying clouds where waiting for his return, for he has like always come back with some new experiences, a few new findings and a little colorful dirt, a perfect journey according to the council of clouds. As he shares his travels with the clouds and his fellow drops he is in tears as he reaches the mental image of the green drop, he can smell the perfume and with his description so can everyone else. He leaves the crowd and finds a quiet corner and talks to a few drops about their experience and hears of some moving creates, ones that don’t need the Rope to commute. This new piece of information amazes him. He now knows what he is going to look for on his next journey.
At the very moment of being let out of the cloud, he leaves behind sorrow, regret and all other dry emotions of the last journey with the cloud, turning the beautiful grey cloud into a clear white sky.
