The flying fool

May the old winds remember your name kindly… and may the sky open only when your spirit is ready to rise.

They called him the flying fool, but fools are just men who believed the sky would keep its promises.

Up there the world thinned out… noise fell away… and even the bones felt lighter, as if gravity were only a rumor told by people who never left the ground.

He said the cockpit was a chapel, wind the only scripture he trusted, clouds the soft‑edged witnesses to every dare he whispered into the prop wash.

And when he lifted off that night in the Spirit of St. Louis, he carried no parachute, no radio, only gasoline ... as if faith itself could be poured into a tank and burned mile by mile until morning found him.

Looking down, he mistook distance for divinity ... earth small as a coin, people smaller still, mortality a thing he could outclimb if he just kept the nose up and the engine singing.

But every god‑dream has a seam. Every sky has a bill to collect.

And the flying fool learned, as all aviators do, that the wind is generous right up until the moment it isn’t… that the sky loves you only in the way a wild animal loves ... beautiful, indifferent, never yours to keep.

Still, he chased it. Still, he rose. Still, he believed altitude could save him from the weight of being human.

Some men pray. Some men run. He flew.

.......

Happy hump day, much Luv, xo