Drop

The memory of my birth flashed before me, that moment in which I was condensed from water vapor, becoming a single drop of water within a cloud.
         I remembered viewing the town from this vantage point, seeing watermills and canals spot a landscape covered in fields. I had had, instinctively, a sense of yearning as I looked down, aware of what I had the capability to achieve there.
         I remembered falling from the sky and flowing downstream to the town, picking up neighboring drops as I went along. Each and every one of our motives was pure.
         These memories seemed to be unreal. I am not sure how deep I was -- maybe 20 feet, maybe more. What was once a stream had flooded and I could feel the pressure from the weight of the water piling above me. I became merged with the water surrounding me; my identity as a drop became lost in the ever-rising body of water pressed against the shore.
         Yet, with vertical pressure there is always an equivalent horizontal pressure. There was no way to resist it, and I was all too aware of the fact that I was applying this pressure to the water in front of me, carrying it along, amplifying it.
         In the distance, I could make out the screams of people running from the flood; it failed to induce a sense of empathy. It was not only my structure which had coalesced with the neighboring water, but my thoughts as well. We plundered into the town, crushing houses like matchsticks, and all I could feel was loathing at what lay before me.
         Us drops of water became a natural disaster. The mind of the masses formed from the pressure, its psychology foreign to us, contaminating what would have once been considered nothing other than pure. The water above applied this pressure, and us drops below had no choice but to follow it.
         But, above the water, the wind blows ceaselessly, its influence omnipresent. All of us drops are controlled by it, and all of the pressure is the blind reaction to its command.