He was pushed from the plane and his mind screams at the unfairness of it all.
The roaring wind penetrates cold while gravity grabs him by the balls and squeezes tight. His shirt flutters mad. His eyes water and his bare-feet clench hard and painful and the nails of his hands bite into the flesh of his palms.
How many people get to think about their murder as they are being murdered, he wonders.
He tries to breathe, but the air hits hard and his adrenaline races too fast and he wonders why it even matters.
The biggest issue is he has time to think. Play with the idea of his reality for a while.
He is falling.
That’s pretty much it.
He is falling.
But he is not dead yet. He wrestles with the idea of this. But there is no hope in that. There will be no branches to scramble for, or use in bracing for impact to prevent it from become not true.
The happy fact is; it is in fact not possible, if he had already struck land, to be falling. Hamlet said it best; to be, or not to be and soon he wont be, but he is, so that’s good.
Maybe he can make his existence stretch on forever by denying death is possible.
Maybe death can only happen if he allows it to.
He closes his eyes away from the vision of the rapidly approaching Earth and deny’s death’s potential.
Then he wakes in exquisite fiery white pain realizing too late death too serves a purpose and is sometimes preferable to living.
Bryan, this was metaphysically invigorating stuff. Good take.
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