Raindrops

    "The rain on the windshield is falling directly into my soul."

      Dull plats thud against the window panes of my grandmothers dining room turned bedroom. Hollow train whistles howl from far away. I feel the cold metal against my fingers, stroking, grazing the edges of the knife. So sharp, so inviting. A mere tool that feels like an extension of my hand... The tip presses against my arm, caressing the soft skin. Then presses its fine edge flat across my fingertips. I put the knife back in my drawer. The thoughts that had been pushed back while playing with my blade creep back to the forefront of my exhausted mind.

     The raindrops make sounds like tiny plits now, coming shorter and harder against the clear glass. I am still lying in bed in the dark. My mind rolls around like my body that is turning over and over again and again. Searching for sleep in a losing battle. Thoughts. Intangible little things aren't they? Scientists say they are mere reactions between synapses, chemical reactions we have no control over. How droll. After years of these chemical reactions making my life heaven and hell I don't believe that. They are definitely more, they are the only way my soul connects with the rest of me. And they make me miserable.

     Tossing and turning. I don't know which way to go. Two options, I know the benefits and drawbacks for each, and to have them both at once is unfair to each. Yet what could they expect of me? I do not know. I do not know about anything it seems. 

     In the rooms the women come and go speaking of Michael Angelo. The line from my favorite poem comes to mind. Do I dare disturb the universe? I fear I already have. 

     In this life we love much and are loved much. It is the greatest blessing and the most vile curse of our human condition. Yet life goes on.

     The window panes are silent, only a mere drop taps against them occasionally. I slowly lose consciou...