but like a helpless and damaged fledgling, she knew she could not clasp unto even the briefest illusions of being happy.
when falling, she would see something that grabbed her eyes, her fingertips, or her heart, and she would try to name it, call it, or grab it. her mouth would try to give sound to the frustration incurred within her due to the falling that would not stop its motion: the falling that would not decelerate and accommodate her desire to touch something, or to feel something touch her. further silent mourning grew as she replayed that moment on the hill, when the crumbling rocks finally crumbled, taking her foot and body with them...and before the crumbling rocks crumbled, the hill had sunk, had broken, had slid...and before that...the wind pushed, but she remembered now that even if the wind hadn't pushed so strongly, she was there, on the top of the hill, determined: to step forward, and off.
there came a time when, after she had fallen for a long time, the blurs began to transform into shapes before they moved out of her field of view. then, after another long time, the shapes began to elicit movements within her that she had forgotten existed. she saw things that were once familiar to her, and her mind began to long for them again. those shapes reminded her of flicks of happiness and dots of unhappiness and shades of normal. yet, if she allowed her mind to go there, where normal was being strapped down and dissected by shifting fingers and busy questions, these shapes would all disappear into a haziness that hid everything away.
then those everythings would pass along more quickly than ever before, and the blurs mashed into each other until they were just a dull, tranquilized darkened wall. she was still falling, but she no longer knew how fast she was going without the spaces between the blurs to tell her how much of that everything she's missed.
~suicide of a different sort, part 3.
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