I didn't realize I'd left solid ground--the fall has been slow, gradual, unwitting even--and yet, I can now clearly recognize terra-firma speeding ever-closer into view. Face-first, you see.
We don't choose our direction in a fall. Sure, I know those of you out there so skilled at falling, you volunteer to do it from great heights--like 13,000-feet. But you forget, you're not alone when you jump: you have parachutes. It's easy to land on your feet with a parachute...or at least, easier.
What happens to a free-faller without a parachute, untrained, inexperienced, heading head-long into...well, death, I suppose. Ah. That's what happens. No wonder I feel my stomach twisting into so many tight, tiny knots. No wonder my hair is turning white. No wonder....
But I do wonder if this is how the Romans felt. I bet it felt eerily similar. Like anyone 1,000-years from now could have predicted this whole thing, but in the midst of it all--I was blind. Like the Romans. Like me.
Maybe some have stouter constitutions for this sort of activity--unfortunately, I've been pushed before. My body is in tangles--a heaving heap of scars, tissue, and fractured bone--save for the titanium-mesh soldered to my skull. I look as though I've been the play-thing of billowy-eyed bullies...for decades. And I have.
So when does it stop? I suppose that's a question easily answered by our rather acute (and convenient) mortality. Death is the end. But I somehow find myself immortal.
Such a fate...to be an immortal, immutable, immovable woman.
Stop saving the whales. Start saving our daughters.