As a child eagerly awaiting playtime windows misty damp from pinto beans cooking on the coal stove, the rain fell steadily day after day. Odd, I cannot remember the rest, something about going out to play. Forty years pasted though I no longer write on windows and there are no beans on the stove, I sit scribbling words on paper in silence and solitude. Still, I cannot go out to play. Looking outside from within I have imprisoned myself watching the rain, as each singular raindrop splashes into a puddle rippling, extending itself into a finite ring then vanishing.
Some drops make bigger ripples but they all disappear in the end.
That is what I am, that is what you are. A rain drop in a puddle making its entrance, existing for but a moment in time, disappearing forever, making room for a new raindrop. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched. I would recommend anyone who suffers from Manic-depression to read this book. Especially if your are creative.