I have been falling for so very long now that I can sometimes forget, push it out of my mind, and pretend. In another thousand years, will I be human enough to remember that I was human? Maybe, I say maybe, if these weird transformations continue, I will sprout wings once more and ascend from this darkness. What will ascend? How can I say? I speak of millennia from now, of changes upon changes, of a me which has forgotten myself.
I speak of things in this twisting decent, this flailing fall. A metaphor for this immortality of mine you seek. Do you think you will be free? Will you craft your own heaven and earth? Or, detaching yourself from the story of man, what will you become? Does the actor think himself the director? Or, if you write your own story, how will your rebellion not bleed through the ink leaving nought but indiscernible smears?
Jump off this cliff and fly. You will not fall. There is no bottom to hit. You can fall forever without ever really falling. You will not dash your foot against a single stone.
Tale Told 