Ever since a kid starts to see around him, the peculiar gift of flight in nature that only a few species possess, he would've dreamed of flying like them. And when he figures out, to his great dismay, that he and many others like him are not cut out for the job, it is at that juncture where his mother would let him know, so as to alleviate the despair, what the Wright brothers had accomplished for him. Finally, by chance, when he gets to see the real spectacle taking place several thousand feet above him, that is ignition enough for his most important childhood dream: to fly, or technically speaking, to become a pilot.
All parents want their children to make it to the top, and by top they mean above everyone else. From grade one to day one at work, they nag in front of their kids to make them more competent so that they can brag in front of everyone else. The airplane toy is a tool, in that sense. The kid who is not old enough to know what ambition is, is being initiated into th...
Isn't this but a paltry bit of honest thought, That my poor soul will once be solemnly sought, By those felic fluttering wings, fragile and fair, Fully bearing the stench of my filthy canine air? Was it not naive and far from prudence to confide In souls forged of disparate mettles, who guide Us through perils that only their hide can defy, And give counsels the poor soul can hardly buy? Was it not a folly reckoning that we'll be fully seen And taken in by those, for whom we've kept keen And diligent watch, but still hold presence dwarfish In their spacious hearts that our banishment wish? Knowing so that we haven't the licence to question, Must we quit or mask ourselves in forced oblivion?