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In a Drop of Water
by: myself

Thursday, October 26, 2006
Creative Writing, Fourth Block
Miss < TEACHER >

I just got out of sanitation. I’m traveling fast with all my brothers and sisters, and we don’t even know where we’ll end up. Last time I made an exit I was in a sink, but the time before that I sat in a dirty toilet bowl for three hours before being mixed with various organic wastes and getting flushed back into the pipes with a loud swooshing sound and a swirl that changes direction from hemisphere to hemisphere.

It’s a shame, really. I’ve been around since before the first organic crawled from the sea. I’m a free roaming spirit, with the wisdom of the ages. My brethren and I have been to many places, in many forms. I’ve been to the bitter cold landscapes of Antarctica, both as a feathery, white flake of snow and as part of the brittle, smooth icebergs. (I especially liked being part of the few thousand emerald ones that I’ve joined; they look like lime, but they taste oh-so-salty!) Sometimes I go to the cozy shores of the Bahamas. I’ve made my vacation as a diamond of condensation on the outside of many cups smelling of lemonade, as an over sized drop of rain, (I usually have to share the space with ten or so of my buddies.) or both. A warm drop of water is a happy drop of water!

A few times (a few being so many million,) I’ve touched the rim of the deep black sky. For truly, the sky only looks “sky blue.” Silly organics. I’ve been in and out of every organic species on the planet; I know their inner workings better than my own. Being broken up into my base molecules is kind of like being tickled, but all over and inside. I hear the organic humans speaking in their unnaturally deep voices through the echoing pipe walls; they think they’re so smart. Surely, they have enough knowledge to enslave the elementals, but they are still foolish. They have no respect for those who give them their power. Without us water drops, all of the earthling organics would die. Their machines would outlast them, but soon they too would return to the collective of nature. Such are the thoughts of a high-spirited drop of water.

Still, in all my elemental glory, I am forced to do the bidding of the humans. I actually kind of like the roller-coaster ride through the pipes, it’s quite the hydrogen rush. Still, I don’t think it’s worth my freedom and my dignity. Oh lord, here comes a split in the pipes. Which will I take? I guess I’m off to the left. Down, down, down we swirl. If we don’t stop, I just might hurl!

I come out of a rusty shower head and whistle through the air. I’m sparkling in the light, free falling, separated from my brethren for a moment; this is why I like showers more than most other things. I fly right by the woman standing in the tub, and lose my euphoria. The humans make each other pay for water, and they waste it on absolutely nothing. I join other drops at the bottom of the tub. Some are messy with the dirt of the woman; I can taste her sweat inside me and the see it floating in the other drops like a miniature lava lamp. This isn’t so bad. No drop is 100 per cent water, there are many other things mixed into us. It’s part of what makes us individual. I smell grime and the musty smell of shower milder as we flow into the drain with the natural smooth grace that comes with our age. We quickly form into our signature blob and run down the drain. The path is predictable now. Though the actual route is undoubtedly different, all drains lead to the same place. They lead to freedom, simplicity, to the sea. I like being part of such a vast collective, being among my friends and relatives without so much interference from the humans. Then evaporation, flying with the air, falling as rain or snow, back to sanitation and the pipes, into eternity.

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