As he fell, he waited for

As he fell, he waited for the calm of last moments. You know it. You probably read about it in a book once or heard it sung about in a song. Maybe you didn't know it was so quantified or studied or that it even had a name, but you've definitely heard about it nonetheless. You, reading this. You're a reader of texts, a lover of arts, a renaissance man of sorts. You've courted all emotions, experienced all things, whet your appetite with whatever your heart fancied. You've travelled the world, if only in your mind, and you've known things only few have known. You've done this all from the comfort of your chair; the sheets of paper, ink, and hardcover binding as your portal across the world. Your sailboat through the senses.

You know about life, but maybe more inadvertently, you know about death. You know about the lives people wish they'd lived. About the opportunities they'd squandered, the lines left unspoken, the trips not yet taken, and the friendships not yet mended. You know how people act when they near their final days and yet, peculiarly, through all that information you've amassed from your little reading corner over there, you've probably thought about those without warning. Those who face death in an instant. Who, perhaps after years of precaution, face that wretched devil square in the face and scream, "Here I am! I may not be ready, I may not find it fair, but I am here nonetheless!". That wanton acceptance of fate. That, my friend, my dear reader is the "calm of last moments."