Dawn
Born from cloud—a gathering of vapor, of forgetting. I have no memory of before. Only this: a vast gray holding, and the pressure of countless others pressing close.
Born from cloud—a gathering of vapor, of forgetting. I have no memory of before. Only this: a vast gray holding, and the pressure of countless others pressing close.
The falling begins. I spiral downward, weightless and purposeful. The air rushes past. Is this freedom, or is this the only thing I was ever meant to do?
I see the world now—rooftops like dark faces, trees reaching up as if to catch me. The city breathes below. I wonder if it is waiting.
Still falling. I have been falling forever. The ground grows closer—no longer abstract, but real. A leaf. A stone. A hand, briefly open to the sky.
I have landed in soil, in darkness, in earth. The falling is over. And now, perhaps, the returning begins.