Leonardo Da Vinci

There’s a sketch in one of Leonardo da Vinci’s notebooks—just a few faint lines drawn with iron gall ink on fragile paper. It doesn’t look like much.
A few circles, some cross-hatching, and the curved outline of a bird’s wing. Most people would flip past it, not knowing they’d just glanced at an early prototype of human flight.
But Leonardo saw something. He always did. Where others saw feathers, he saw mechanics. Where others saw a canvas, he saw a question.
Where others saw a corpse, he saw a key to understanding the soul. Leonardo da Vinci’s mind operated like a symphony with too many instruments.
It was brilliant, disorganized, and obsessive. He chased after ideas the way a child chases fireflies: wide-eyed, arms outstretched, always one moment away from grasping the impossible.