I dream of falling.

    Hurtling in an endless descent, my body straining every fiber to find something, anything, to break my fall in a chasm of nothingness. Spiraling in a terrible, ceaseless plunge—thrashing, twisting, turning—till my body yearns for the dreadful, unavoidable impact.

    I know the death it will inevitably bring, the horrible, crushing suffering; but anything would be better than the everlasting, irresistible pull of gravity. My hands cease to claw for a hold to halt my descent, my limbs stop the convulsive struggle for life, and then, with a jerk that throws me out of bed--

    I wake, full length on the cold, wooden floor. My heart is pounding, breath coming short in immeasurable relief; but still--

    But still…

    I find myself strangely empty, and lost. I miss the joyful rush, the euphoric feeling of blood pouring through every vein, the rapturous air whipping about my body as I dive with unmatched speed through the darkness. Even though I know the horrible conclusion of the fall, I cannot hate the nightmare, for I exult in the awful power.

    My day exacerbates the sensation of loss, with mundane duty following mundane duty, in the same pattern it has since I was old enough to realize what was missing. Waking up at the same hour, with the same routine I have always followed, going about my trite business with the same unvaryingly nauseous people I have for every hour of my insipid existence. Every day, every week, every month, every year—following the same pattern it has, and will always follow for the rest of my nonexistent life.

    My name—it holds no meaning. I dream of falling.