Fall and happy little tree

CW: mental illness, death mention, solipsism, 2nd person pov, repetition

honestly it's just a vent in a more artistic form

It's not the fall that kills you. It's the heart attack. It's the hitting the ground, the skull injury, the loss of blood. 

It's not the fall that kills you. It's the lack of it, being stuck on a ladder, almost falling, not one person to help getting down.

It's not the fall that kills you. Was it really all that effective in a long run? Seeking the closure in the sleep, in the sweetest dreams?

It wasn't. Losing a whole half of self is painful, even if you know all those people are just as real as the real you. Not at all. Never. 

It wasn't the fall but the landing, the end of floating in darkness, the visits full of poking at mind and telling that it's abnormal to miss people and to feel awful because you can no longer see the sun. 

It wasn't ever the fall. It was getting stuck under covers, the glaring light, the awful darkness. One could wish it was the fall but the fall felt scary and good. Falling in. Falling out. Falling apart on the floor. 

All those people just as real. 

All those people with names and faces and liked things, with little roles. All survived. All fell asleep while you woke up at 8:30 in the morning after a nap, safe. You tried calling upon them.

What caused them to go? What caused them to even happen in the first place? Imaginary people at that age are a sickness. 

It was never the fall. It was something else. You are officially sick. And you are sick of the sickness, you quarantine, you bind the nasty pieces in white bandages but those pieces begin to live their own lives with their own names, and you are sick of them and you are sick still. 

It was never the fall, it was the overwhelming sickness written from the above.

You fall. You repent begging on your knees to an invisible being you don't believe in to be saved. 

It was never the fall that saved you. 

Perhaps it were all those strings, the loose ends untied together undulating above your head and around your limbs as you swore to never leave the world without closure. All those people imagined as you indulged in solipsism once again while knowing the you is constructed.

Maybe it was all those strings that moulded you as you grew until you couldn't anymore like a tiny tree growing for half your lifetime. An ancient art of weaving a trap for beauty, for good results... Until the tree withers from lack of water or air.

It's not the fall that kills you and jumping from the lofty heights of your ego growing like a beautiful bound tree is the safest thing ever done. 

It's not the fall that kills you. It was never effective and not even withering brings help to the dry bones during a dry spell of unproductiveness. 

It is not the fall and not the people disappearing. Was solipsism right? People were never real and one can only ever truly observe themselves through the eyes of another. 

 The tree tumbles over, the flower pot cracking and spilling parched earth on the ground, the bound branches becoming unbound with no one to supervise it. 

Or maybe the tree just dries out, withering. Or maybe it just loses its leaves for a very long winter. 

It was never effective, half a life of work. Mediocre at best. But there is a safety in being no one special.

A dry tree is set alight in a bonfire.