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.