As a little boy my most ardent wish, apart from wanting my dolls to come alive which I was actually praying for every day on my way home from school and I was willing to trade all my other desires for if only he would make this yelling yearn happen, was to have a radio controlled toy helicopter and a walkie talkie set.
I explained to my parents over and over again that I really needed this technology to deliverer important messages to my best friend Daniel, who lived a couple of blocks away. We could occasionally exchange small gifts and treats this way, that we would negotiate through our portable transmitter.
I never discussed the real dream with them, assuming they wouldn’t understand what I only half understood myself, albeit quite simple: our bodies are not made for flying. Our muscles are not stretched enough, our bones are too dense, we lack the lung capacity needed to get enough oxygen into our blood, especially high up in the air. Leaving the sky unconquered however, not giving in to what the French call l’appel du vide, has never been a viable option. To defy gravity is apparently everyone’s dream.
The romanticist I inevitably became now judges my childish nagging for toys as a missed opportunity. Refined by more knowledge of exquisite art and literature, beautiful reflections of angels and other airborne creatures, I now know that if you are setting your sights on a divine goal piercing through chaos, you’d be better off diving into a more archetypal story like Icarus, matching the overestimation involved. Forget about technology: if you so long to fly, why not ask for wings?
In our real world the emerging virus has only made that argument stronger, clearing the sky of chemtrails and forcing us to accept a new reality. We know we can fly, but we shouldn’t want to anymore, or at least less. Talk about delivering important messages.