Beginning of the Fall

Chapter 7: The Beginning of the Fall

The higher you go, the harder you fall.

The fall never begins with a crash. It begins with a wobble — a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the internal atmosphere. A moment where the altitude that once felt like freedom suddenly feels unstable. The air thins just a little too much. The light sharpens just a little too far. The speed becomes just a little too fast to sustain.

This is the beginning of the fall:

not the descent itself,

but the moment the sky stops holding me.

The first sign is always the drop in clarity.

Not a collapse — a dimming.

The thoughts that once arrived fully formed now arrive in fragments. The connections that once felt brilliant now feel brittle. The insights that once felt revelatory now feel slippery, dissolving before I can grasp them.

It’s not confusion.

It’s depletion.

Altitude has a cost, and the bill always comes due.

Then comes the lag — the moment when my mind, which has been outrunning everything, suddenly stumbles. A thought catches on something invisible. A sentence breaks in the middle. A gesture misfires. My internal timing, once too fast, becomes uneven.

It feels like tripping on flat ground.

The body feels it next.

The vibration in the chest shifts from readiness to strain.

The breath becomes shallow in a way that feels less efficient and more desperate.

The muscles that were braced for movement begin to tremble.

This is the body saying:

we can’t hold this altitude anymore.

But the mind, still lit from within, tries to push higher.

It tries to maintain the brilliance.

It tries to maintain the speed.

It tries to maintain the illusion of control.

This is where the fall begins — in the refusal to descend.

The higher I’ve climbed, the more I’ve mistaken altitude for mastery. The more I’ve believed the myth of brilliance. The more I’ve trusted the velocity. And the more I’ve ignored the truth: the mind is not meant to live this high for long.

The fall begins with the first moment of fear.

Not panic.

Not terror.

Just a flicker — a single, sharp awareness that something is slipping.

A thought I can’t catch.

A sound that feels too loud.

A moment where the room tilts half a degree too far.

It’s small.

It’s quiet.

It’s unmistakable.

Then comes the emotional snap — the point where the upward weather stops feeling like power and starts feeling like pressure. The brightness becomes harsh. The speed becomes punishing. The ideas become overwhelming. The urgency becomes unbearable.

This is the moment where altitude turns on me.

The higher I’ve gone, the harder the fall will be.

Not because the descent is violent —

but because the distance is real.

The fall begins with the realization that I am too far from the ground to land gently.

Too far from myself to stabilize quickly.

Too far from the people who could steady me.

The beginning of the fall is not the fall itself.

It’s the awareness of gravity returning.

It’s the moment the sky lets go.

The moment the light fractures.

The moment the brilliance dims.

The moment the body trembles.

The moment the mind stutters.

The moment the altitude becomes unsustainable.

The fall begins quietly.

But once it begins, it is inevitable.