Paper Plane

Paper plane, fragile architect of childhood dreams, folded hope, creased ambition, a fleeting geometry against the sky. Not metal, not roaring engine, just the whisper of a breath, a delicate defiance of gravity's heavy hand. We launch you from rooftops, from classroom windows, from the precipice of "what if," each fold a silent prayer, each arc a measure of our own untethered yearning. Do you dream, paper bird? Of distant winds, of unseen shores? Or is your flight merely a surrender, a graceful descent to the inevitable ground? A crumpled landing, a silent crash, the end of a brief odyssey. Yet, in that frail form, a universe unfolds: The weight of intention, the sharp edge of possibility, the ephemeral beauty of a moment caught between release and return. We smooth you out, sometimes, trace the creases, try to recapture the magic, the impossible lift. But paper remembers. Each fold a scar, each journey a ghost. And the next plane, though similar, will carry a different wind, a new set of hopes, a fresh, unwritten ending. ©bfa031525