Well, I Did Eat A Poppyseed Muffin...
Remember that essay I actually enjoyed writing? Well, with my ninja skills, I copied it down on a separate sheet of paper during the excessive downtime of the CAHSEE. I'm sure I wasn't technically supposed to, but I couldn't bear the thought of sacrificing what I though was a decent "essay" of mine to the state of California. So here it is, word for word, edited only for spelling:
A midnight in February. I sat alone, silence only broken by a hymn of madness that pulsed in my mind, coupled by the anthem of thoughts that repeated themselves ad nauseum. Was I at peace? No. Did I wish to depart to the land where one's wildest dreams and most frightening horrors culminated themselves into a singular mental motion picture? Not yet; the darkness was nigh, the moon still young. However, as the hymns switched over within my mind, even the anthem of thoughts ceased to be an incessant bother - it was no longer silent within my realm. Rain's presence had been announced by its rhythmic downpour and the window beckoned to be greeted by my weak reflection. I naturally obliged.
What greeted my cold grey-blue eyes was a scene of magnificent splendor - a shower upon the darkness that existed beyond the pane of my window. What little light that existed from the moon and other sidereal bodies manifested itself in the small tears that fell from lamenting clouds, ever prevalent against the darkness of night. The tears of rain gathered upon various objects of the material world of suburbia - coating but not permeating these worldly possessions. More naturally Mother Nature's children embraced these nurturing tears - the grass absorbing it with avarice, while the tired old trees used their much sought after wisdom to collect and save this water in pools on their leaves. All this occurred under cover of darkness, though occasionally in a blinding and bright display, a dash of lightening ripped through the dark linen canvas of night, briefly silencing the noise of rain with its angry roar. However, the clouds could not lament forever, and their wounds were quickly healed with the passing of time.
There was silence once again. Tears of the clouds no longer danced in front of my eyes, and rather my own swelled up within them. Daunted again by the silence of the night, the anthem again picked itself up in my head, and another hymn hammered itself within my brain. Soon, only consciously, was the song of Mother Nature forgotten, and replaced by the cheap secular hymn of conventional media. Subconsciously, it was retained that the natural song of the rain was far superior to the wailing of a hymn by a guitarist only knowing three chords. Mother Nature had shared within the comfort of the night her laments, and I had made sure to lend a listening ear.
A midnight in February. I sat alone, silence only broken by a hymn of madness that pulsed in my mind, coupled by the anthem of thoughts that repeated themselves ad nauseum. Was I at peace? No. Did I wish to depart to the land where one's wildest dreams and most frightening horrors culminated themselves into a singular mental motion picture? Not yet; the darkness was nigh, the moon still young. However, as the hymns switched over within my mind, even the anthem of thoughts ceased to be an incessant bother - it was no longer silent within my realm. Rain's presence had been announced by its rhythmic downpour and the window beckoned to be greeted by my weak reflection. I naturally obliged.
What greeted my cold grey-blue eyes was a scene of magnificent splendor - a shower upon the darkness that existed beyond the pane of my window. What little light that existed from the moon and other sidereal bodies manifested itself in the small tears that fell from lamenting clouds, ever prevalent against the darkness of night. The tears of rain gathered upon various objects of the material world of suburbia - coating but not permeating these worldly possessions. More naturally Mother Nature's children embraced these nurturing tears - the grass absorbing it with avarice, while the tired old trees used their much sought after wisdom to collect and save this water in pools on their leaves. All this occurred under cover of darkness, though occasionally in a blinding and bright display, a dash of lightening ripped through the dark linen canvas of night, briefly silencing the noise of rain with its angry roar. However, the clouds could not lament forever, and their wounds were quickly healed with the passing of time.
There was silence once again. Tears of the clouds no longer danced in front of my eyes, and rather my own swelled up within them. Daunted again by the silence of the night, the anthem again picked itself up in my head, and another hymn hammered itself within my brain. Soon, only consciously, was the song of Mother Nature forgotten, and replaced by the cheap secular hymn of conventional media. Subconsciously, it was retained that the natural song of the rain was far superior to the wailing of a hymn by a guitarist only knowing three chords. Mother Nature had shared within the comfort of the night her laments, and I had made sure to lend a listening ear.