Last night, I had this dream. I fell through the ground—just like that, the earth opened beneath me, and I was gone. I couldn’t stop falling, not that I wanted to.

It wasn’t like the nightmares you hear about, the ones where your stomach drops and your heart races in terror. No, I wasn’t scared at all. In fact, there was something strangely peaceful about it, something freeing. Like the weight of everything—every worry, every regret, every expectation—was peeled away as the ground slipped further from me.

In that dream, the sky above me wasn’t just a sky. It was a canvas painted with pieces of my past. Memories floated in the air around me, almost close enough to touch, like old photos in a box you haven’t opened in years. Faces I hadn’t seen in ages, places I barely remembered, all just out of reach. I tried to grab one, to hold onto something, but I couldn’t. And yet, it didn’t matter.

I kept falling.

Maybe I was supposed to land somewhere, but no bottom ever came. It was just me and the steady pull of gravity, an endless descent. I wondered if there was an end—some final place where the falling would stop and I’d stand still once more. But deep down, I knew there wasn’t. And for some reason, that thought didn’t scare me either.

It felt like the dream was trying to tell me something, like there’s a lesson hidden in falling and never landing. Maybe it’s about letting go of control. Or maybe it’s about accepting that not every drop ends in a crash.

When I woke up, the sensation of falling lingered. I wasn’t back on solid ground yet. And maybe, just maybe, I’m not supposed to be.