raindrops

He was desperately trying to get out of the first person perspective. What was the trouble? Is he that self obsessed, he wondered? He considered that lots of writers probably have trouble getting out of the first person perspective. Which in his mind only went further to prove that he was self-absorbed; if he had thought for even a moment that he was the only one that had trouble with perspective.

Who was he fooling anyway, trying to be a writer? He had no unique life experiences. And no desperation about his lack of unique life experiences. So far, he thought, he had the equivalent value of a single rain drop outside. Sure, someone might see it, someone might not. If he was lucky he would be the first one on a person’s windshield. If he was luckier still, he would freeze and stay a little while longer.

But more likely than not, he figured he was a raindrop in the middle of summer falling in the middle of a deserted ocean; his attempts to write just as futile as if the raindrop screamed on it’s way down. Then again, a screaming raindrop would be pretty damn unique. There could be lots of them, out there in the ocean, for all we know. He thought that though the chances were slim, maybe he could even be a screaming raindrop that freezes on someone’s windshield.

There was no way, he thought, a raindrop could know where or when it’s falling, or he could know where his life was going. But unlike a raindrop, he sure is screaming.