~ Ada's got a scheme a flying machine constructing wings of paper, oilsilk, wires, and feathers faster than light in all kinds of weather Ada's going to fly ~
For Augusta Ada King, Countess of Lovelace (née Byron; 10 December 1815 – 27 November 1852), daughter of poet Lord Byron and renowned mathematician. She valued metaphysics as much as mathematics, viewing both as tools for exploring "the unseen worlds around us."
I was seven I had run away I climbed a tree high up in it's branches Tall and reaching to the sky I looked up and saw piece of heaven waiting for me I reached for it. I leaped flying for one a blissful second Then I was falling Quiet as the wind on a summers night I didn't wish to wake the world I was falling blissfully in peace I was seven but didn't wish to break the peaceful silence that I never got It was just me Flying in my mind Reaching towards the safest place I had ever seen But I hit earth and woke up in a place I didn't want to be again I was back in my room My parents had found me still reaching towards the sky I haven't seen that place since then I'm still waiting Iv'e tried
Peace, falling, flying
this did happen though not as angelic as this tho ive tried to see that peace agin. Ive been broken too much.
"Icarus," I breathe through my dreams of flying free. The naïveté of the youngling I desired to be was a warning sign to all that watched his descent. It was not his disobedience that led to this -- to his body buffeted in the merciless winds and swept up by the sea -- but being blinded by boundless beauty through his kaleidoscope vision. What more could one wish for than the all-encompassing euphoria of weaving through the sun-soaked clouds, of learning the meaning of freedom as you reach up to brush your fingers against the sun? What more could one know than wanting something so desperately that every shiny red sign is just one more bauble for your collection as you struggle to escape the empty abyss engulfing you from within, as you let the feeling of bliss envelope you for one heavenly moment, as everyone screams in tinny voices that you should listen -- listen! -- but at least you got this one second, this one heartbeat of a moment, to finally let the chains fall from your bloodied wrists and spread your newfound wings for all to see, for you to see, for once, for nobody but yourself before tumbling to the beat of gravity's forlorn yet never-ending song. And maybe he regretted it and maybe I will too but as I press my palm against the echo of the sunlit expanse reverberating in someone else's memory, one word slips from my parted lips: "Icarus."
4/19/2021 Inspired by the line "even Icarus got to fly" from Matthew Charles Shade's poem "Icarus."
I was told if I ate worms, I could fly. Ever since, I've stepped over sun-baked sidewalk worms. I recall eating an orchard apple from the ground. That didn't end well. Rockwell suggested frying them. Hamlet punned about worms travelling through a King. Don't be called a worm. Don't worm your way in, You'll likely find a hook. I'm forever grounded. The worm hasn't turned.