[ WP ] You enter the dank , cold room and stand there in the light . On the table you see an envelope

I didn ’ t need to fall this far. There it was though, and after everything that ’ s happened, it only seemed so very fleeting. Like a down-low lover ’ s whisper right before you fall asleep, only afterwards to find everything so empty and cold. But here I was, and there the envelope was. Haltingly, my feet inched every step -- my body knew better than I. 
 //// 
 
 A momentary shriek, like a mic dropping, came from above, breaking my gait. A faceless voice, feminine almost but any other defining feature was hardly discernible and one could never infer anything given this line of work, crackled, “ Here is your payment, take it and be welcome to it. Thank you for your patronage. ” 
 
 My heart stood at a precipice at that precise moment, and I did the unthinkable. I looked back, and it was a terrible mistake. 
 
 The falling grace of a human being is not found in others. We, as social creatures, mutely understand that no one will ever be able to fully understand another: an experience is a unique event that correlates with and reacts to prior experiences. When two people watch a tragedy of a dead mother and a loving son, one may cry deeply for he knows what it is like to lose a mother as a son, and the other may only tear slightly, understanding that it is, indeed, a sad event but that is how the world revolves: dead mothers and weeping sons. We know, to at least a certain degree, that others will never fully know who we are. When we are hated, despised, loved, celebrated, and tolerated, we see ourselves through them. We determine our self-worth through the beliefs of others, and that is a fallacy on our part; who knows ourselves better than us? Aspiring to be more though, our eyes are set upon the stars above, and each other. But when we begin to see ourselves through our own eyes, when the lights dim and the inner eyes avert their gaze, disgusted with who we ’ ve become and terrified of what we ’ re capable of and unloved for what we ’ ve done, that is when we fall. That is the falling grace of a human being. If you, my dear reader, have ever begun to disbelieve and hate yourself for merely existing, you have merely tasted the echoes ringing through a walking dead man. 
 
 //// 
 
 I took the envelope, and walked out. 

