Movement

What was this sensation? Falling? It had that peculiar lack of control, that sense of motion and speed, but none of the jarring lurch in the pit of your stomach, the expression of instinct in a way that tensed your body and prepared it for impact. But there was no impact, no rushing floor, and no fear. Just the momentary panic of assessing the unknown and unrecognizable and finding a frame of reference for it, something to neatly categorize and label so it could be shelved among common experiences to be found again later.

But this was new. This got an empty shelf to itself, way off in the corner reserved for things that would either eventually need their own wing or would get buried under a pile of scattered memories left to be frantically dug up some late afternoon when the whole shelf was kicked over by the smell of mushroom soup and old leather. There wasn’t even anything frantic to it, nothing clawing to be brought under control, just a restless curiosity. It reeked of inevitability. Was it even a recent feeling? How long had it been there? Was it always around, quietly overshadowed by the persistent pummeling of experiences that lined up demanding to be acknowledged and tended to? Maybe it had been there from the beginning, just forgotten.

There was honestly no telling at this point. There wasn’t even a lot to be done about it. It was clearly getting at something, a tugging at the mental sleeve, but it wasn’t about to give any hints. It just had to be seen when it happened.

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