1/1 collage illustration by Magda Americangangsta Sometimes I feel myself falling. Not from a height, not from a place that can be named, but from the surface of things, from the fabric of reality itself. It begins quietly, without warning. A shift in the air, a soft unraveling. The world, once solid, begins to blur at the edges. I reach for something to hold on to … a thought, a sound, a familiar object, but everything slips through my fingers like water. Even language falters. The words I know become distant, as if they belong to someone else. It’s not fear exactly, though my body tightens as if bracing for impact. It’s not sadness either. It’s something stranger, a kind of suspension, as if I’ve stepped out of the rhythm everyone else is still obeying. Still, in that falling, there is a strange kind of truth. A clarity that doesn’t come from grasping, but from letting go.