The Questions of Reality in the Life of a Romantic

Here I sit in my bed,
two candles light my paper and the ink upon it,
as the sounds of rain inspire me again.

This is reality.
It's a sweet romantic reality,
hidden from others by Night and Nature.

I find myself wandering, pondering,
why people think one can't hear a raindrop talk.

In all the books and movies,
the rain goes 'pitter-pat,'
'pitter-pat-pat-pitter-pitter-pat-pat.'
Why don't they write about 
raindrops with secret missions
and magnificent clouds giving birth?

It's just a force of Nature,
those cold reasons tell me.
But what of us Romantics?
I can give a name to each rivulet,
hear it sing to me about its brief life,
hear it splash with bitter ecstasy
and wonderful agony,
then the dead body is washed away.

Why do I dream, seek, live
these 'non-rational' experiences?
I let my mind, my soul, my imagination
run free, taking inspiration from all I touch.

Does it make me happy to dream,
to live what cannot be immediate reality?
Or does it just help me survive,
give me hope for the future?

Why do certain friends make me so introspective,
while others prompt the flagrant spontaneity?
From where does all this passion flow?

(Why do two candles never burn the same?)

I know I write for myself,
so that I can remember my dreams,
so that others can hope to understand who I am,
what I think, what I believe, what I dream.

I can really hear cascading raindrops sing,
and each composes a different melody,
while whole groups compose symphonies.

Can you tell me, please,
Is it only within myself, or do you hear it too?

These are my stories,
these are reflections of who I am.

As the candles fade from sight,
a gate to another world is opened again.
I hope to meet you there.