Of Paper Airplanes and Life
Yesterday I made paper airplanes and flew them in the theater lobby with some of my friends. That was fun. Those people are simply crazy, in case you were wondering. One of them had one of those little laugh tubes (the ones that if you shake it back and forth it makes an insane "hahahaha" sound) and was acting like a deranged clown. They chased each other all over the place before finally coming to rest by the table. We all sat down and I made an airplane, and tried to fly it across the room. It didn't get very far, so Jason picked it up and salvaged it. He tried to make it fly, but it didn't. The rest of the time was spent trying to make an airplane fly for more than two feet.
Which prompted some deep thoughts about life. If you feel like thinking I'm crazy, read on. If you're already convinced of the fact, go ahead and read it. It won't hurt. If you feel that I'm the most sane person in your life, then I would not recommend reading this next paragraph. Your life might crumble into pieces.
So. You pull out this fresh sheet of paper, right? Nothing's on it, it hasn't been marred yet. Perfect paper. You carefully fold it in half, making sure all the edges line up. Then you fold it this way and that, checking the creases, making sure the tip is nice and pointy. You pull out the tail flaps and fold down the wings. You examine it carefully, certain that this is the best paper airplane that was ever created, evisioning it sailing gracefully across the room and coming to rest in perfect form. You check the winds and cross winds, make sure the air currents are just right, then launch it with loving care.
Only to watch it flutter for about a foot, head up, then spin into a nose dive that sends it crashing to the floor.
Isn't that just like life?