I’m in a parachute, falling, slowly, into a world of patient splendour. Wind rushing, yet my heart is still; longing for more of you. A melody of symphomies filling the spaces of ambiguity – what is this I see? Formations in the air, more organised than those in my head. The wind is still rushing, rushing, never waiting for me to catch up. Breathe. They say that when you’re nervous. Or fatigued? I struggle to find the difference. The ground is getting closer, closer. Why couldn’t it ever be that way with you? A falling man doesn’t think about what held him before; he sees, feels, knows. You saw and felt; I still don’t know. But yet it was – I forgot what happened when we hit the ground,
The wind is rushing.