Freefall
We might never know who crashed
Walking through this ghastly city, I gaze into the night. Cold air brushes the inside of my lungs and I drink hungrily. My feet — ever so loyal and stubborn, taking me to places when the mind is empty — are starting to ache.
“Click-clack”, “click-clack” high heels echo through the stone pavement. Skirts flutter as the soul dances to the chaos of the passing cars. “Click-clack”, “click-clack” my feet hit the ground as thoughts pour waterfalls into the cold night air.
I would like to think it could be poetic — your words haunting me all night. I would like to believe it’s romantic even, but we’re old enough to know better. A life romanticised — is a life beautifully lived. But there is nothing beautiful about us.
The world is saturated with stories. Yet it’s hungry for more — how incredibly human…
We tell stories to ourselves — the ones we are desperate to believe in. And we believe in the stories dished out by others. Those who came out victorious rewrite the tales of the defeated. But some stories defeat, too.
“Click-clack”, “click-clack”…
Who came out victorious?
People soak in experiences and knowledge — they love to share their tales. It’s funny how we perceive the lives of others, is it ever accurate?
I love listening when people talk. I enjoy listening to the stories I know — how funny can they be when told from a different perspective? Do we engineer our life in some mysterious way? Does everyone get dished out a different set of tools and add-ons, because it never feels the same?
The story of your life told from a different perspective can sound like a happy one. How obnoxious, yet… interesting.
“Click-clack”, “click-clack” high heels echo through the stone pavement. I grab onto the cashmere scarf — what a mistake that was — and soak in your essence. I can smell the blood of my aching heels, how the leather slashes my skin. It’s delicious. It’s delirious. I want to scream.
Loud steps echo through the alley, and a tall ghastly figure dances through the darkness. Can one feel as alive as they feel very much dead? Expired. Exhausted. What a lovely abomination!..
Some notice an empty shell waltzing through the dark, yet find it attractive. There’s something wrong with humanity — how we find beauty in eerie things. How we enjoy torturing ourselves. We love the idea of suffering for something greater than us — as if we ourselves could somehow become great.
It’s funny how some ratty romance can crush one’s soul. It’s even more funny how it can seem not-so-ratty to a random bystander. A love so great and powerful, an epic tale of sorts.
A wicked grin paints my face as an unexpected drizzle finds its place towards the earth. There’s no piece for the damned, I see, even a calm evening walk is too much to ask.
“Click-clack”, “pitter-patter”…
I suppose it’s fitting — the unexpected rain and your smell lingering around me. Both unwelcome. I hope they slip away, slither into the blood-hungry depths of the earth.
I sometimes wished it could swallow me whole, but there’s nothing whole about this shell of a ghost waltzing the night. My sorrows washed by the pouring rain shall suffice. The earth might be hungry, but so is the human soul.
“Pitter-patter” — it soaks into my clothes, it seeps into my veins.
We may never know how deep the fall could be, but it can’t be endless. You can’t fall deeper than the ground. I wish the bowels of the earth would swallow me whole, but perhaps it’s a blessing — it can’t.
After the impact — comes the recovery. If the fall is no longer, it means you’re learning to fly. Perhaps even gliding the skies (once again).
Nights will pass and many rains will pour, yet people will continue telling stories. Perceptual engineering and varied views of life — who knew, a story of your fall could become one of a great flight?..
After all, maybe he was the one who crashed.
My scribbles dive into a variety of topics. The thread of thought can be unpredictable — inspired by places, people, experiences or the occasional earworm on the playlist…
I often weave my cloth of writing unsure where the threads will lead — or if the final tapestry will hold.
Yet whether I scribble fantasy or horror, highly opinionated or research-driven pieces, I hope it leaves you with something to ponder: makes you feel better (or worse?..), strikes an inner monologue (hopefully, voiced out in the comments!) or simply gives you something to chew on, inspiring to keep the creative ball rolling.
Thank you for reading!
