The Drop

The rain started slowly and then sped up.

Millions of drops, of all different shapes and sizes,

Plunged into the still water of the pond.

The ripples they left behind were all different,

But each was as perfect as the others.

A concentric circle, slowly rolling outwards.

Such is the course of interaction.

I am the pool.

Every encounter is a drop.

No good, nor bad.

Just ripples. Shaping the surface.

But once, in the middle of a downpour,

A drop falls,

No more or less perfect than any other,

And yet,

From that moment,

There will always be before and after

The drop.


The Drop

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