Rain

Here’s a piece I wrote out of boredom today. I’ll see where it’ll take me.

It was raining. There was always rain, as far as the boy could remember. And he had been here, always, from the beginning of his consciousness. He had often wondered what the world without rain would be like. A world without rain? How absurd, a part of him thought. Considering there had always been rain, and for all he could see there would still be rain, isn’t it logical to conclude that rain is the natural order of things, of which the world couldn’t be without? Indeed, he mused, how could he even talk about “rain” as a concept? There is nothing else but rain. If words are meant to differentiate some things from other things in his head, then there would be no use for the word “rain” since the “rain” he referred to was an intrinsical part of everything.
Another part of him rose to the surface of his mind, eager to resist the the other part, a contender for the reign residing in his skull. How could he say that there couldn’t be no rain? In the house, for example, there is no rain. The droplets of rain hammer rhythmically on the roof. He could hear it, lying on his bed. But none of the drops of water could touch him. He was dry. And if he makes a shelter in the forest, a contruction of twigs and leaves, the water cannot touch the ground below. But then again, there is still rain. If one consider the world as a whole, at least the world as far as he had seen that world, then there is always and probably always will be rain.
But why, if there now was no reason for the concept of “rain” as it would be redundant, did he still invent the concept of rain? He was unsure. Truth to tell, he wondered if he had ever invented it, consciously or otherwise. “Rain” had sort of been ever-present. He could not explain it. “Rain”, like a myriad of other things, had always been there, untangible. But why? Why did he need to use words to express his thoughts? Couldn’t his mind simply just process information and reflections without the aid of words? If anything, being chained by words seemed like it was handicapping the flow that was his mind. If only it could break loose and spiral freely, unhindered by these blurbs of verbal obstruction.
“If only.”
He was startled. The use of speech had always had an air of creepiness about it. He could not figure out the use for it. Communicating with himself went easy enough without the aid of verbal language. Surely, there must be some as of yet unknown use for it? Then again, perhaps some things didn’t have a purpose, perhaps they just… were. Lots of thoughts were queing in his mind, eager to make an appearance, to have a word. He tried to organize them, bring order into the cacaphony. One thing at a time.
He tried to imagine what use he could possibly have for speech. Would it aid him in reflecting upon things, to let out whatever thought he had inside him? Doubtful. If anything, it only further pressed down his mind, since he had to try to figure out what to say, and that restrained him. Anyway, writing did a far better job. He could write down whatever was on his mind at that particular moment in time. If his mind and feelings were different by the time he had read it again, he would gain a better understanding of things. He also recognized that he seemed to forget things now and again, and writing acted as a sort of primitive method of memory storage.
Writing could be a hint in understanding the use of speech. When he wrote down things, he used different symbols representing different sounds which could be used in speech. When certain symbols, or letters as he seemed to prefer to call them, were arranged in certain ways they became words. But that didn’t explain speech, part of him thought. Thought was what writing was built on, and it was either thought or writing which speech was based on. But there seemed to be an instinctive reaction in him which questioned that writing would be above, or prior to speech. The reaction didn’t make much sense, but it nevertheless lurked in the back of his head. He tried to shake it off, and assured himself that it was an irrational reaction.
A thought which had tugged on the sleeve of his mind suddenly managed to make its presence known. It felt stark in content, as if it was forbidden to even think it. Still, it was there. He thought, what if there was another one of him. He needed only to look down to see the physical presence which was himself. Torso, legs and all. And if he looked at the mirror, he could see his own reflection staring back at him. He could concieve of there being another physical presence, perhaps another mind. Would they be able to communicate with each other by mind, or would they need to use speech or writing to communicate? Again, the thought of somebody else but him struck him as absurd. But still, there was something in him which thought it made perfect sense. The sharp contrast confused him a bit. The whole affair struck him as a bit odd. He wondered if perhaps the whole argument going on in his brain was a way for him to shake off the whole cognitive dissonance. Maybe if the combatants weared themselves out and one pure victor emerged his mind would finally be at rest and he would achieve clarity and calmness.

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