• wasted_sparks 30w

    " People aren't rain or snow or autumn leaves; they do not look beautiful when they fall. "
    (Read this somewhere.)

    Fall once. Chances are you'll fall a second time. Fall twice. Chances are you'll every second time.


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    I chanced upon a fallen story on a starry night. You know, one of those moments when everything is riddled with cracks and soon after, everything breaks and scattters and falls away. It was one of those moments but it was all inside my head.

    I came upon a window, singing a fallen melody, to which a ballerina danced away. Her little graceful feet floated to a sad symphony. The night had turned down the rest of the noise. I like to believe that in that moment, I existed and she existed and the mad medley of sadness and pain and a night's inky inkling existed. Nothing else did. This mind of mine was perceiving only that and that alone and nothing more was needed. It was when she teetered a bit too close to the window ledge that I decided to walk away.

    Another window and a burning candle dripped away, the wax melting and then hardening on the foreign floor. Robbed of dignity, a dusky shadow cleaned it up. She watched it drip and never did she stop to turn the awry candle upright. For what would she do if that lone candle flickered and burned out before it had all melted away? Where would she turn her nimble hands to? The candle burned on, still lopsided, still vulnerable.

    I fell forward soon after and looked up to another hollow rectangle. A man, walking the edge of freedom, edged closer to the window sill. His sanity dwindling and falling, he seemed to carry a death wish too. A fallen window had been his world. Now, that little window wondered if it would perhaps watch him fall. He didn't fall. Not then. He still walked along the edge. Slowly, deliberately, still wondering what it would take to fall down and down and down and further down.

    I walked away, my patience fading. But I did wonder. I wondered if any of them fell soon after. For there is something pathetically beautiful about falling and something pathetically scary about the fallen. They could rise and yet, they chose to fall simply so that they had a reason to rise again. I believe, that is why, I wondered if the ballerina tripped over her gentle feet, if the candle fell and burned the shadows into darkness, if the man lost to his eccentricity and took the jump.

    I wish I knew what had happened to them but I do not know for I had, after all, been watching only for a second and a night.