Falling is soft and easy. This moment is better than being formed, better than being released from the sky. The best moment of all is the rush of joy that soars over like a wave, the surge of fear like the second in which the wave pulls and struggles, as the sea strives to claim another body. This is the moment when I see rooftops and lights at last.

Falling is soft and easy. This falling hasn’t yet thinned into the dwindling drizzle as our magic passes, often missed by inattentive, imprudent human eyes. Still floating, drifting… The ground approaches, but I am not afraid. I wouldn’t choose any life over this. We often melt away, unnoticed, but the easy, drifting fall is worth it. It’s a short life, but condensed with the sweet happiness and elation of the fall.

Falling is soft and easy. I can see individual people clearly now. Not many turn their eyes to the performance above them. How sad. Some are even hunched over against our caressing touch. I know who those people are. They are the ones who strive never to leave this cube of a world that they wander in. They shy away from beauty because they fear that it will vanish. Why do they turn away what will help them see, help them live? How can somebody hunch away from our delicate display, as if we were poison? As if they will die if we touch their skin? How sad and desolate their lives must be. But I will not think of that. My fall is short, and I turn back to enjoying the bliss of my short existence.

Falling is soft and easy. I pass by a window now. Will I be noticed this time? A girl sits behind the window, a worn book in her petite hands. She turns her face to the rhythmic dance unfolding beyond her constrained and unadorned world. But I can see in her eyes and her delighted smile that she appreciates what she is seeing. That’s good. So many humans pass through life without appreciating things like this magical moment. I pity them. They lose so much. A gentle current of chilling air wafts me away from the glass, foggy from the girls warm breath. She slips from sight. The girl has turned back to her book.

Falling is soft and easy. The ground spirals, ever closer. Our dance is coming to an end, the curtains descending on our transient recital. I am not afraid. I look up, and see that as our dance ends, the gentle floating thins, spiraling fiercer, not so soft and easy. I think of the people hunched in their coats. I think of the girl with the worn book. The gentleness of this dance has ended. So many didn’t even watch it, didn’t even feel how much simple things like watching our fleeting lives can change theirs. Why do they turn away these brief spells of joy, forfeiting incandescent splendor that will brighten up the corporeal time they have been granted? For in the long run, it is not the building blocks of a life that makes it worthwhile. It’s the accents, the decoration that those blocks are adorned with, the small things you take the time to notice and enjoy. Why waste that perfectly fresh happiness, sitting before you and waiting to be used? All of those poor people who didn’t watch our ballet will never have any hope of seeing it again. People cling so hard to sameness, permanence, and unchanging routine. But life isn’t like that. Snowfalls come again and again, but the same snowfall never repeats itself. Things never remain the same. That is a tragically wonderful and terrifying thing to know. But that is why this impermanent moment of sheer loveliness is before us. And that is why it must come to an end.

Falling is soft and easy. At last I settle onto the already snow-covered earth. So, my journey is complete. I can feel myself beginning to melt away. How short that exhilaration was. So many left untouched by it… but if I could reach into at least one person’s soul, my fall was never useless. I remember the girl with the worn book in the window. She saw me. And she smiled. This bittersweet lifetime of mine wasn’t in vain. I can go peacefully.

Falling is soft and easy. So is melting away.