The Free Fall
I find myself sitting with an open book before me, a pen in my hand. Thoughts flow, words form. A voice, perhaps my own, whispers, "Just write." Then, the room tilts, and I'm falling, a thrilling freefall into the unknown. Suddenly, I'm at a party, surrounded by laughter and noise. Someone asks, "Great party, isn't it?" I nod, I smile, but my words vanish into the noise. Then, the fall shifts. I'm falling at an angle. The sensation of altered. speed. A reflection appears. I ask, "Who am I?" Silence. The reflection just stares back, unblinking. Then, I'm spiraling, the world spinning around me as I descend. The fear of not knowing who I am and the fear of the fall. Intertwined. Laughter carries on the breeze. Voices call, "Come join us!" I try, but the words are stuck. Then, the fall slows. I'm floating rather than falling, the fear replaced by a sense of calm. The inability to join the laughter and the peaceful fall. A poignant contrast. "Hamlet." I read aloud, "To be or not to be." Silence. The world is upside down, the rules of gravity reversed. Then I’m falling upward. The question of existence in Hamlet and the awe of the upward fall resonate with each other. A profound moment. Words, accusations, hurt. A voice says, "You've changed." Silence. I don't reply. Then, the fall shifts sideways. The sensation is disorienting, the thrill muted by the strangeness of the experience. The hurtful words and the strange fall echo each other. Amplifying disorientation. The book closes. The lamp goes off, the room dark. The night quiet. I say, "Tomorrow." "Tomorrow is another day." Then, I land. The fall is over. I'm back in the room, the book open before me, the pen in my hand. I write about the fall, about the thrill and the fear, about the subtle differences in each descent. The room tilts. I'm falling again, ready to experience the thrill and the fear, ready to discover nuances of the fall. The cycle repeats, dream continues.
The alarm rings. I silence it. I sit up in bed, rub my eyes. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth. I look at my reflection. In the living room, I drink coffee. I look out the window. The world moves. On the street, I walk to work. The city bustles. At the office, I sit at my desk. A letter is before me. I hide it when a coworker passes. At the park, I sit on a bench. John talks. My mind is elsewhere. Back at my apartment, I sit on the couch. I read a letter. I hide it when there's a knock on the door. In my bedroom, I lie in bed. I look at the ceiling. I reveal a diary under my pillow. I open it, then close it. The day ends. Secrets remain.