But there is not only the spoken and the written word. There is also the
formless, unbreathed word of mood and dream and passion. This is the
word that must have been the spirit of God that brooded over the face of
the deep in the beginning. It is the word of life and death.
It was the word of my life and my death. The dream word that breathed
into my nostrils the breath of life and destroyed me too.
Dreams. And life. And death.
I had a dream. Always I had a dream. I cannot tell you what that dream
was. I can only tell you that flying was one of its symbols. Even when I
was very young that was true. Even as long as I can remember.
When I became older, it became even more true.
So deep a dream, so great a passion, could not be denied.
Finally I did fly.
"Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, when the evil days
drew not nigh...." Part of the same old story.
I remembered the dream of the days of the youth of my flying, that burst
of glory, and how the world and my shining youth itself shone with the
radiance of it.
It was my creator. It created life for me, for man shall not live by
bread alone. Man cannot. Only his dreams and his vision sustain him.
But the evil days drew nigh. The glow died down, and the colors of the
earth showed up. Ambition, money. Love and cares and worry. Curious how
strong the strength of weakness is, in women and their children, when
you can see your own deep dreams, unworded, shining in their eyes. I
grew older too, and troublous times beset the world.
Finally there came a time when I would rather eat than fly, and money
was a precious thing.
Yes, money was a precious thing, and they offered me money, and there
was still a small glow of the deep, strong dream.
The ship was beautiful. Its silver wings glistened in the sun. Its motor
was a strong song that lifted it to high heights.
And then...
Down.
Down out of the blue heights we hurtled. Straight down. Faster. Faster
and faster. Testing our strength by diving.
Fear?
Yes, I had grown older. But grim fear now. The fear of daring and
courage. But tempered too with some of the strong power of the old dream
now too.
Down.
Down.
A roar of flashing steel and a streak of glinting ... oh yes, oh yes,
now ... breaking wings. Too frail ... the wings ... the dream ... the
evil days.
The cold but vibrant fuselage was the last thing to feel my warm and
living flesh. The long loud diving roar of the motor, rising to the
awful crashing crescendo of its impact with the earth, was my death
song.