Staring out her window, she sees the dark silhouettes of the large maple trees in the yard. The only light on the entire street cast them in a lonely hue. It was the street lamp where she had received her first kiss. It wasn't anything spectacular, he wasn't anything spectacular, but the atmosphere was different now. She realizes love escaped her there for the first time.
Small beads of rain pelt the window. She watches one roll all the way down the pane and assimilate into the puddle on the sill. She stares for a long time at that puddle. She knows the water will erode the paint hat is barely hanging on the house. The paint is already peeling away, showing the ugly grayness of the warped wood underneath.
The candle burning in her room is down to the last centimeter or two of it's wick and it is flicering sending shadows dancing across the wall next to the window. It is the only light left in the room. The rest is an abyss of darkness that might as well not even exist.
By the weak light of the candle she had been scribbling her thoughts into her journal. She doesn't write about what Johnny or Joanie did that day. Philosophy rules her pen. She explores the meaning of life, the existence of souls, the possibility of an alternate world. Tonight the words are being put on hold as she is getting lost in the real world.
"It is amazing how one can lose their identity when they assimilate into a collective being. Resistance is certain death but assimilation is the death of the individual," she thinks.
A voice from somewhere in the darkness responds, "It is only through the assimilation into a collective being that one can truly express individuality."
"How do you figure?" she asks still facing the window. She is not shocked, the darkness reasons with her often.
"If you take the case of that rain drop it is easy to see your point. The rain drop on an individual level lost itself when it became part of the puddle, right? Well, were it not for the individuality of that one rain drop the puddle would stay the same. The addition of the individual characteristics of the rain drop make the puddle what it is now. For a collective to thrive it must have a group of individuals working together toward the common goal of preserving the whole in order to survive."
"I don't understand," she said.
"The human body is a better example. All parts are a collective group of individuals. With out the parts the group would not function properly. Each body part has to do its individual duty to keep the whole functioning. A leg cannot do what the brain does and a knee cannot do what a rib does," explained the voice.
"That works out just fine," she said, "provided the collective objective is valid."
"Explain."
"Some objectives are not worthy of a collective collaboration. Hitler is a good example of a bad objective. When the objective is to destroy it cannot be considered noble enough to attain."
"That may be true but you can hardly fight the objective if you are not aware of the overall picture. Besides that incident caused a union of individual countries to assimilate and collaborate toward a more honorable goal."
Droplets rush down the window pane. Te smell of the rain rushes in through the small crack between the frame and the sill. Her book falls to the splintered floor. Her blankets barely cover her fee. The candle is out. It is cold by the window. She sleeps.
No comments:
Post a Comment