All words wither, a river of rain falls upon my bare skin at midnight. Servus imprisonment, the mother of all freedom, come hither radiant raindrops! I feel cold and it warms my heart. There had been a zillion degrees of nonsense posing as a god, posing as the Northstar and I said: Enough! Let me be a vagabond cosmic body, meant to wander footloose, not move purposefully in neat orbits about some dazzling star that holds everything to it like a tyrant in need of attention.
I want my soul to yearn a song into a volatile state of pre-existence in the dark of a curtained night and whine about nameless sorrows with the noble notes of my now fairly familiar guitar, then uncurtain the night and listen to rain and breeze, for no music is more profound to a weary mind without accolades to boast.
I watched a drop of water slowly deliberate itself into existence. It grew heavier with the passage of time, I saw another which seemed more rounded. It was perhaps closer to the anticipated fall, from the leaf to it all. I looked back at the first drop. Should I stay with my drop or go for the one which will release me sooner from this obligation to perceive. Who doesn’t feel the need to bear witness to a falling every now and then? The moment grew heavier with the question of fidelity and virtue and I felt rather miserable as my eyes darted from one drop to another. Why must beauty suffer at the hands of judgment? I looked away, finished my coffee, and left the observations for another day.
Story Of The Footloose 