The vertical fall was only a man’s height, but it took forever to crash. With a whirr and a whizz, the head tilted back and the eyes followed down from the horizon. The sea that saw the episode looked shocked, seemingly raced to gather him up as he fell, and so clashed at the rocks. With waves as outstretched arms, it failed to grab him and retreated in helplessness. Judging by the style of collapsing, it appeared he died of a heart-attack.
The poets came back with their most recent works, trepanning his emotions. He thought of nothing else but her at this moment – the remains of a smile, the eclipse of her hair across her moon face. Colours changed as the sky moved her sheets to cover the sunny face. She was not happy today.
He knew April balloons burst. His immaturity took to disliking his new fondness for strength, and only once did the ego highlight a terrible thought: the lose of many years before.
The love didn’t come from anyone else. He finally got to really feel it, even though he always knew. It wasn’t anything anyone could give, as neither did he.
“I can’t hold onto this feeling forever” he mourned. He took it to heart, to the very beginning of his being. A spike in the epicentre of existence in all that he felt. He kept it right at the apex of all of the knowledge he acquired; all his incompetencies suddenly became known, the pinnacle of possibilities well within his reach as they always were. He just hadn’t been interested in them. Until now.
“I want to.” His focus kept him inadequate for the moment that he was experiencing. His own brain betraying him, and yet befriending him at best. At worst, it was not letting go. Coming with attacks and torture she portrayed what was really happening now; the longing for better. He hadn’t had this kind of better at all, even though he mulled it over a many millennia-minute, he never understood a single drop of his consciousness.
She, to him, was all too encompassing. All too Almighty. All too God. Never human. Let go and forgive even though he didn’t, he would. The arguments and the flaws were going to be subjected to judgement. What use and advantage was his judgement? He said many times I love you, and only once did he let slip that he didn’t. This was the real moment – the blessed moment he missed and messed up. Cowering, he tightened more saying that was freedom in is message. He said so. How could he be wrong? How ever could he find a way back to the beloved? How many gurus would it take to seek the right answer that he wanted, not what he deserved? He stopped being him long before, and he never let go of the thoughts; of what he was. Showing him him. Incomplete and riddled with confusing messages. He allowed poor poets to translate him woes; spilling Nile like river flows of mess-ups into his organised chaos. He waded in and felt warm water made frozen.
He deserved this, he said to his heart as it ached with the back bent and collapsed legs, muscles folding and mouth dropping. His eyes fell and his arms flopped and his teeth clenched and his stomach churned and his fingers pinched and his toes curled and his chest tightened and his shoulders stretched and his anus gaped and his nose ran and his ears unheard and his knees buckled and his neck crooked and his penis seeped and his mind exposed the sorrow he kept for so long – for so god-damned long.
“I’m crying that you never came.” The melodrama played out to an unsuspecting audience of sea-gatherers and expressionless tour-gangs. But he wasn’t crying, nor had he intended to. I was pure showmanship. A startled performance before his failing eyes. Theirs, this crowd of inexperience, had scarcely time to recognise a man and his endeavours to entertain. They came to watch the sea originally. This falling man seemed more expansive than that which was crashing near them at the shore.
They saw from each their own vantage point a man looking ridiculous, looking stupid, looking provoked, looking awkward, looking clumsy, looking pale, looking hurt, looking needy, looking worried, looking dazed, looking drunk, looked drugged, looking idiotic, looking like he is having a heart-attack – everyone just stood, unable to move. It was all too fast and all too slow. Each of them, worried of being judged by their surrounding peers, made not a muscle move in the direction of the falling man.
They watched him crash.
A young man, gangling near, treated him with suspicion. An act of criminality was being committed, and he was not going to be a part of it. Stepping away from the moment and the movement he made a space between them. Further from the fall he sort. From the height of living the fallen man made. The falling portrayed a threat; the young man was not keen on engaging with a madman. Even though he saw him falling, stepping away was in order to be not a part of this lunatics antics. In all honesty, he thought he was drunk as the others did as well. Leave me alone and don’t bother me with your collapsing.
Here amongst the land-sea of people, he knew no one. No one knew him. He was alone amongst a clammer of strangers. He was amongst his kind, but not his kindred. Not one of them attributed him with that acknowledgement. They all had their soliloquy, and his like theirs, was their own. A great tragedy was unfolding to our friends, as he himself was heralding the passing of him. Hand waving and at the same time drowning, he bid farewell as he begged for help. He was, to him and all, a dying man. Farewell and begone.
He thought he was the only kind left, and ever of his sort; of himself. Him alone was a unique nature. His dreams had manifested unbeknownst to anyone around. He could see the same as they could not.
Falling man resides to know this – finally – and he accepts it with a breath in; giving in while exhaling out.
God of man made imagery clubbed him and gave him head wounds of unworthy. Worthlessness now. All of it. All of it descending like corpses in a pit. A pit of pity, and the piety that shows the usefulness – looking into the bag. It was of tricks and these are nothing. He gave nothing up of the skinned shield around him. He blasphemed himself, becoming his own anti-him. All the while, cursing at the folly of lies; lies all are keeping to make peace with a gormless god. This wretched god who laughs as many gods did before him. They live for it, as they keep them alive. At the moment death is happening, god runs to the bunker, coward and afraid, making more of an attempt to dispel than to help. At least these people unwittingly stayed to bear witness to an end of lies. Go away god, he spoke.
Tumbling Jack with the stand-alone Jill on the hill, with nothing more to offer and refusing to follow. For what would that do to her? Cause a headache. And so no one moved for the falling man.
Now comes her, and her powerful ways. It envelopes him and scratches at his decaying skin shield. He has time to look upon the gravity of the person who it was all along. He looks at her eyes that portrayed a hidden vice and a clear objective of negativity. It was pure. It was potential. It was her negativity he stole like a thief in the night. He came through the window-glasses and struck an angry fist upon the minds, stealing the treasures of hate and therefore the objectivity of love. He kept it in him, and tried to make it his, but the moths knew there was light in the darkness, and earnestly battering away at the soul in an attempt to get at it. They would sooner die than be his. Upon seeing the love, the ashes that it was now, he became the phoenix. Begin the parody. Wanting this drama-love at this moment, this death time, he flashed a boot to crush and grind it as he had always done. But this was no time for this kind of thing now. He had no reason to have this hilarity any more. He wasn’t to live long, so triumphantly he returned to what was and what always will be: himself.
Hell, as he had heard, was not under the soil he was falling toward. From this avid eye, he recognised the soil and the manifestation of his life as dirt. The glorious hatred and the wickedness that resided, was not even remotely close. The sadistic and the sublime, intertwined and twinned with care and love. The huge grief fell upon the weak character that hid, bringing out in rages and thrashes of sadness and destitute. He felt tears of abandonment, perceiving the good he had done for his devilry to exist. The light was not all there was in searching as he was blinded by the darkness. He had forgotten the moths. Like old clothes in a closed closet, he was eaten.
He began to scoff now and bellow winds back. He fought to be rid of the feelings he had and the fights he took on to regain trust. It was his trust he never regained. It was his fights he took on for himself. All else was an objective, a mirage, forever a filigree to his imagination. And he laughed at this. All laughed back. He found humour in it. Compassion overflowed with all of the lustfulness and hatred he ever had. If only this was summoned up in his life. If only he had been accommodating of himself and his wrongs of right. Oh the joy to have, and the horrors to endure eagerly. As man has never endured long enough that these horrors be terrible truths of lies. He gave in, the pathetic; he endures sugar too long. Salt he needs now, and plenty of it to balance his ph.
They are not the balance, as they are heavy sides of the see-saw. They know. He knew every one belonged to it without the use of clubs and staying in castles. They picked for themselves what they wanted, and this he accepts. He will say in his last breath “I never loved you” and it was this truth in him to be a lie of his life.
It was only life. Something bore it. Channelled it to the common space. He hadn’t a clue to life as he died. He was forever trying to forgive himself without knowing there was never anything there to forgive.
He had belonged to a tribe of morons, working all the while to enhance the feeling of it being right to be here or there. He never took a step back and gave it space to breath; to taste the air; to have a say about whether it should live or die. But they weren’t going to kill: that is your doing, boy-o. You do the killing, and I will do the death, they whispered. But his ears were closed.
As he fell, the others in the vicinity of the sea-front-see-death continued to speak to none, but all knew of it eventually. Some took their time in coming to the obvious conclusion, but that became not so obvious in the wake of the falling man. They mentally produced pictures and graphs, some relating it to childhood, and others relating it to their dead mothers, but none of them actually kept their eye on the man’s death. They couldn’t see it because they were busily chatting in their heads of what might happen next. The channel was the same, the man was the same, the time was the same, but the event was different all the time.
He started to remember as he fell the times he spent going to events and practices – he sought out remedies and heroic returners written in gospels according to them and those; the divine associates. He saw poets transform others, relinquish and uproot their transgressions. He longed to be a part of this elite and ideology, to be enfolded in the right way astuteness. He developed the personality of reforming, but never accomplished the workload – his was a lazy obsession filled with contempt.
The pulling began to happen in his chest. He acknowledged it, and the grip it had upon him. He worked out very quickly that it was as if death had a hand and made itself known. Infant, it clawed its way upon him, grabbing the chest first and then the shoulders, neck, arms. He wrestled him to the ground, and he swung his legs around his waist. The pulling continued, even though his body reacted stubbornly, his mind relinquished more and more. Giving up the air his head was at. Giving up the air his lungs ate. Giving up dreams he possessed. Giving up the sex he conquered. Giving up the endurance he postulated. Giving up the visions he rendered.
Giving up him.
Becoming void of all longing, he soon realised that the air was harder than the ground he once walked upon. The air didn’t enter him any more. It didn’t go into his lungs and into his lining like he was accustomed to. It bothered him little though, and centimetre by millimetre, his lungs pushed out but never took back.
Most things were happening inward for him. It was inward where he was reducing to. He’s inflation to the exterior had little to do with anything in his present condition, and he knew full well this. He was going into places he never knew existed, or to be rightfully accurate, he was entering places he avoided. He was never to be the same and this was of no consequence anyway to the outcome of this journey he is undertaking.
He kept a firm hold, for it would be the death of him. If that ever was for him to go, he would follow forever the traces left in the sand. Or so he thought. And the thinking was no longer part of this conversation. He was slipping away from any of his seance. Any of this glue.
He stopped missing – missing them all. He had a wallet of photos of the past and present. He had none of the many. He had listed them in his head especially for this moment, but what did they matter? What did any of them mattered?
Upon feeling the fall, he spent his time looking back at his son in the past. His ball was crooked and punctured. His son remained motionless with an ascending smile. He felt like crying, but for all the wrong reasons. He felt safe from all of these visions – he knew the special effects and make up. The timecode stamped infinite. His supposed creation slipped away, foamed and slithered into the sea.
So began what seemed moments of reconciliation for him. The party watching only could see seconds as he alone felt eternity. Each moment was spotted momentarily, moments he felt lasted before, during and after the sun. He became aware of the length of things; time no longer was made an issue of. At least understanding the end at this very moment, he witnessed a passing of a life and the coming of another instantly. He knew where he was, and he knew he was as safe as safe can be.
The televisions stopped broadcasting; the radios static. the internet distilled and the ground rose to greet him. He was coming back to something he never left – he knew he was part of it all. The centre of him was only an finite stop; an irregular point of registering feelings. They went as far out as they could, remaining always at his centre: he never left.
There was no more to give and no more to take. It was all going to rust and dust and turquoise and blue and hard and soft and irregular and peculiar and opposite and defiant and expressionless and emotionless and grotesque and eloquent and humorous and enormous and indulgent and ungracious. It was being what it was. Worry nothing. Nothing was coming to be heralded as much as those bastard angels who were meant to herald. Nothing of the heroism that himself and others all perpetuated needs and wants. There was no escaping the music of the choristers. The brilliant entrance of the exiters. It was no end and a complete stop. He came to realise his predicament. His knees were the first to feel hard ground. He was shocked by this and knew what was next.
The passengers of the long awaited mouthpiece of humanity gave a twitch. Twitch this and twice that; the brain twitched hoping something else would.
His moment had reached a bypass. It had managed to enlighten a bit more before its inevitable demise – it logged onto its current bearings and surmised the demise. He wasn’t worried. The brain acted this way for his last moment – for his escape. He took a notice of its behaviour – the brain that he only would presume it is him, and he glanced an awkward glance. He saw it was infinite and nothing more. It looked at itself and collapsed the boundaries. The mirror ball had nothing to reflect. It concluded it in itself was nothing more than a presence. A presence brought up by images, light and refractions.
When his hips bounced hard on the ground, it occurred to him that sex had (finally) escaped unharmed, and he reconciled his pelvis to the lushes of piss. It was warm and the last of it explored the outside world, hibernating in his trousers until some of it seeped beyond, and gained ground. He was aware that the fluid was harmonious to the event taking place in its surroundings and in its own fate. The warmth became cool-cold long after he departed. At this moment though he knew what co0l-cold felt like, and wished (for a moment) that this would continue forever. It would. He got to his belly.
His presence amongst the spectators became a clamber for steadiness. His position on the plateau encouraged tight security from the group which in turn accomplished more twitches from the cortex’s of the gathered.
His head like a ton and eyes that would soon fall out of their sockets. As he fell, the man came to another place nearer to where he is presently. All in a wrap, the people he had met came to him, and their stories as well in plentifulness. He heard them all once again. He saw his first love, naked in bed with him as he ended the mystery of what her body would feel like inside for the first time. He saw his father and mother, his relatives, heard voices of theirs from sentences they kindly spoke. He grabbed an arm of his toddling daughter who went to close to the pool. He laughed with a friend at high school in class, where his teacher reprimanded them both for disruption. He saw a celebrity who was no one any more. He wrote a book of a whole galaxy of discoveries, that no one will be able to read.
And just like that, as his head lay still after a bounce – snap – light bristled and burst with a silent bang, calamity of sparks echoed visually, foreclosing the life he had. It was the will he now wanted. He got everything he wanted, and it was here he broke the light and found the warmth of ice. No more sights were to have as eyes don’t belong. Feelings dissolved one by one. Anger was one of the first to go along with fear and terror. Surprisingly love was quicker to go and hate was not found; interlocked as always. The feelings diluted into sugary syrup, seeping from within to somewhere he had no care for. And that was the final feeling to go – caring.
The others drew in close by now, a moment carried them like a wave that pushed up against the stone wall nearby. The feeling of someone departing the mortal coil disrupted their plans for an enjoyable afternoon by the seaside. They would talk later of the fall, but now had them eager for more drama. It was the sea that brought them all together, but the man focused there attention away from a small horizon to a much larger one – their own.
The people crowded and flowed from all around, pushing and lapping as the sea does. Keeping the vigil on the man to see any movement, someone had the heroic idea to call an ambulance. Death was not getting out of here alive they muttered. Men in vans can fix.
Amongst them though was dead on the ground. All witness to the fallen man’s gift to them as an expression of fantasy and romance. It was this romance they were in love with. None knew this man’s life. None knew their own. None had an idea what experiences just happened. The voices around the grounded man spoke sullenly and often in shock, panic and awe, but none of the sounds was his. He never spoke no more. His voice, the one and only voice, had been silenced.
He could not tell them anything about it. It was done. The experience was past and yet extended beyond the crashing sea, over the collective horizons of the many oceans, and out through the stratosphere.
Nothing existed now for the fallen man.