pinhole

The good doctor labored endlessly on the dread machine. This rigid framework wrought of the world's lightest alloy and a white sail spun from spider-silk would serve as my prison for the next few years. He was far too old for this enterprise, too frail to pursue his dreams. So in his stead, I will climb into that blasted contraption myself.

They despised the machine as well, the Conclave, when he had first purported to them that the sky was a dome. There were no stars, no clouds, no moon, and no sun, he had proposed to the assembly. With worn hands, he gesticulated towards the crumbling roof, the soiled walls. It was all a glittery facade, a beautiful enclosure, much like the room they stood in.

The eldest member, donning the traditional white smock of their order, rose and remonstrated that they have built great ships, countless probes, and sent them above. All these have returned to corroborate this one truth: above our heads awaits eternity.

There was a fire in the doctor then, a passion he branded all his work. And with that same passion he had declared he would build a craft within 6 moon-cycles that would vindicate him. It has been 5 cycles and a gibbous since that day.

I was a peasant in the nearby village. And when I heard of the doctor's story--it spread like a coughing fit--I sought him out and found him at the old lighthouse on land's end. Until now, a fraction of me believes that only when he opened the door did he finally decide to make it a manned mission.

"The conclave has sent countless circuits and much gadgetry into the heavens, yet their truth is intrinsically separated by degrees. Through your eyes, I hope to prove what is empirical, as we have always done since long ago to discover what has ever been."

Tomorrow I will climb into the dread machine, be one with the lightest alloy and join with the spider-silk. I had known little of this world. But, I know enough to contemplate escaping it. Now, was egress worth placing faith in fiery old men, fused metals, and frail weaving?

If the old man's words were true, then there really is no escape. His midnight equations and craven whisperings spoke of the physical limit to dreaming, an inviolable range to all hope, and an edge to all things.

But I believe that there shall always be more. I am young. Fate has brought me here and I believe she would not lead me down a path so limited. There must be an opportunity to exceed somewhere waiting to be sought; a door for the faithful; an opening in the wall; a crack through which peeks destiny.

My name is Icarus, and tomorrow I will journey into the light.

photo credit: alemonio