The rain is falling. I can hear it pounding on my window. As I sit on the floor, my journal illuminated by my lamp, I wonder what it would be like to be the rain. Free, always changing, never restrained. I feel alone in this world. Confined. I’m sure there are others who feel this way, but where are they? I could scream at the top of my lungs, but no one would hear me. No one would care. After all, what am I? Just a single raindrop. Inconsequential, really. But I suppose being rain isn’t such a bad thing. To a parched man in the desert, rain could be the difference between life and death. And I suppose most people choose to believe they are like that life-giving drop of rain. They try to be extraordinary and special but end up like everyone else. The problem, you see, is that everyone wants to be special. Everyone wants to be someone. Not me, though. I accept that I’m just one of the millions of identical, ordinary drops of rain on a window. Unfortunately, life isn’t always easy. Raindrops aren’t always amazing. Rain during a flood can be devastating. Maybe I’m one of those raindrops. Maybe I’m the kind of rain that brings sorrow, the kind that destroys. I can’t keep a friend, I’m always alone. Anyone who comes near me leaves me lonelier than I was before. A single raindrop, dripping down a semi-depressed soul’s window. The [water] cycle never ends.