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Minding
I am falling.
I don’t mind the sun searing my closed lids. I don’t mind the bite of the wind against my bare skin. I don’t mind the roar, the guttural, primal roar of the wind falling up.
I mind the ground.
It is blue. It looks frozen, the waves soundless and unmoving, yet its vividity makes me suspect otherwise. I see no white streaks of ice. I suppose it will hurt. I suppose I will die.
I don’t mind the way my body is flipping over and over like a rag doll. I don’t mind the way the universe has taken me, against my will, regardless of my will, and decided to drop me. I don’t mind the fall.
I mind the landing.
I mind the impending pain, though I feel no pain yet. I mind the way the water will tear through my skin like paper. I mind the way I will be sliced into slivers like cheese. I mind the way, after I land, off land, I will no longer mind a thing.
I like to mind.
But this, this final minding, is certainly the greatest, and the most painful of all.
I brace myself, but I suspect it will do no good.
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