Falling

I've fallen many places but, right now, I'm not sure where to. I'm aware of the falling and unable to understand it or gain a sense of control about it. Decartes spoke of methodical doubt. Is it methodical doubt, the stripping away of every certainty but the undeniable truth of my descent. I feel the force of gravity and the breeze, so I definitely know I am alive, which is good; and I am falling speedily; but, as to the rest of my senses, they are blind, deaf, unintelligibly unaware, and useless for the discovery of directionality. I hope it's not to a pile leaves with a thousand kinds of red and orange shades of demons, I hope it's not to that Fall of Hell that Milton so fearfully described. I hope it's not to such a Lake of fire, to that pit with an unholy crash down around me, where my splintering is that of the chariots and body parts of Pharo's army those eons ago.