To be Icarus

 I’ve always been a sucker for mythology. Even though I don’t know all the stories in detail, Greek mythology has always intrigued me, especially the story of Icarus.

Icarus was the son of the master craftsman Daedalus. Both were imprisoned on the island of Crete by King Minos. In his search for freedom, Daedalus crafted wings out of feathers and wax.

Before their escape, Daedalus warned Icarus: don’t fly too high, or the sun will melt the wax; don’t fly too low, or the sea spray will weigh down the wings.

But Icarus wanted to soar.

Overcome with exhilaration, he disobeyed his father and flew too close to the sun. The wax melted, the wings disintegrated, and he fell. End of story, at least how it’s often told. A moral about hubris and the danger of ignoring boundaries.

But I don’t think the story ends there.

Because while Icarus was falling, he wasn’t screaming for help. Oddly, he laughed. He threw his head back and bared his teeth at the sky. He yelled into the roaring wind and mocked gravity itself, because he dared.

There is a bitter, beautiful kind of triumph in being audacious enough to try and fail - but try.

The world remembers the winners, but the universe rewards audacity.

The Icarian Sea was named after the boy whose life it claimed, and that dedication feels fitting; we usually name things after heroes, after people who dared to push boundaries.

Perhaps the satisfaction of flying close to the sun outweighed death itself for Icarus.

And—oh, by the way—I fumbled again. “Flying too close to the sun.” Fifth time now. Maybe I just love soaring high, basking in the heat, even when it burns me.

I’ll gladly be Icarus any day.