Icarus Smiled as He Fell

Prose: Alt; Bloodied Knees

His limbs long for warm blood, the warmth that clashes with the cold limestone prison. His hair strands long for the wind, drying up the dampness of the unending dew. His eyes long for the endless sky, vast and unbounded by walls. But, Icarus, does not know any of that. He can only comprehend the expanse of suffering and the void that spans beyond his dreams.

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Icarus fell many times. He did not remember how many. The recent ones can be counted by the parts of his body that hurt.

He comes back from the last closed passage into the embrace of his father’s comforting words; then would try again. His cheek drips blood mirroring the way water drips from the mocking stones. Gripping hard into another string of hope, he runs into the devastatingly long space. It stretches and stretches further than his ambition. When Icarus wouldn’t kneel and when his feet wouldn’t hinder — mixing sweat and blood into the cold tiles – the walls would start narrowing into oblivion. It starts crushing his arms and thighs leaving him with new scars he couldn’t see. He would run into another direction, the void only being filled with his weak, fragile body, only to crash into the humid stones. Sometimes Icarus admitted to himself, that the efforts were not as large as the walls. Maybe he would fail, because he did not try enough, did not run, or bleed enough. And, sometimes, he also admitted it to his father until he didn’t no longer, for the unorthodox view was heavily critiqued. His father knew of his efforts but having his already surrendered, he would strive for him. So, Icarus only barely thought of relinquishing, but he dreamt often of the satisfactory flee, the one his father also used to preach.

Icarus would not want to reminisce of no thing that happened inside Crete, but he does one thing and one thing only, and very clearly at that; his destination. The burning desire for the fulfilment of his greatness and triumph.

When the soft, white-feathered left wing came out of his flesh, glistening in the sweat of his ardent desire, he knew, he was willing, despite it reaping out parts of his soul. When the right one outspread, crafting itself appendage, he felt the fabric of his — now falling — determined heart, wringing its strings to seal it out. The fiery rage, desire, shame and faith shaped into wings would numb out his senses. Icarus had either lost or found himself; but regret never reached his heart, only intense hunger to fly. The hope running through his scarred skin was new. It was blinding the void in which he couldn’t grow through, and as the wings finally finished completing and hardening into solid wax, he bid farewell to his father.

Icarus did not just merely part with his father, but with his old self — the easy and difficult times he went through, the demanding years of handiwork with no ends of escape, the thorny sweat and tears that echoed back at him, the sound of his cries that were swallowed by the dark walls, and most consequential of all, his father’s advice.

He tastes the sweet freedom the moment his face is grazed by the tender gust of air. Oh, how anything could be better than the labyrinth holding his crushed aspirations! The dripping stones watch as he leaves and witness miracle; because Icarus did not cry for his father, his afflictions or even out of injuries; but as the sky, so vast, expanded before him, as the wind, as friendly as ever held his sorrows, and as the daystar thawed his heart and body – he cried for the first time.

Dreaming of freedom came easier to him than the belief of reaching it. He could have never envisaged the way the world looked. The enormous greenery, the beauty of flowers, the soft wind wrapping itself into his whole figure, and embracing it in a way the hard stones never could. The pollen itches into his nostrils and he’d already started to yearn for the different scents everything around him unleashed. Icarus was meant to be part of this world; to feel the wind crash every inch of his skin, to smell all the colorful flowers that held different scents, there is light, luminating his entire being. His eyes would tear up from trying to take it all in — drinking all of its sunlight; Icarus dare not desire anything else, but seeing and being everywhere. He craved to grasp the sky entirely, visit its every passage and coveted the softness of the gentle air. Icarus wanted to do many things.

Icarus would see almost everything. He would meet me, as I hold tightly on the ropes I softly swing into. My swing would lead me only a bit off the blades of grass as my bare legs would hug into the welcoming fluidity of the air — his wings flew further and he would smile at me.

He would stumble across large crowns of birches and pines, and would dream of consuming the sunlight the same way they do. He would envy the clouds, for they could accompany his dear Sun eternally. Icarus could become one with the sky, as his eyes burn from the gaze of the Sun. Icarus could become one with the Sun.

As I lay gently off the swing, Icarus would feel the waxing of his wings sear and drip into the stones that lay upon the ground. The wax would stream down his body like a boiling river, carving away the last fragments of his heart and soul; pooling at his feet that once dared to run. Icarus would watch the entirety of his life, slowly but agonizingly tickle down the legs of which has carried half of his life with. The scorching hot wax would burn his back, while the Sun would burn his face. And as he started to plummet down from reaching his pinnacle, he thought of his father for the first time.

Icarus would remember this fall. The wind would weakly lull him for the last time as he fell, the clouds would blanket over the rays to ease some burning from the Sun. The sunflowers would start praising him, as they continue to turn towards the direction of his prosperity. The trees would remember his passionate descend and would perform it with their leaves every Fall. The Moon did not dare watch it, she would hide on the other side, avoiding his gaze. Icarus had succeeded at last — he would be one with the earth. He would harshly collapse on the stones, blood dripping, while smiling for the last time.

The sky would cry for him, shedding water from the clouds we still know of today. The pine trees would gather and learn to form shade so the remaining scar on his back could turn into solid wax once more. The candles now burn and ease away darkness in the same way, but in a selfless act Icarus never knew of. The stones gently hold his head as he rests, and the Sun mourns for half a day. The dark from her absence in contrast is never tormenting, it includes other stars that would gracefully keep the world dim. And when the Sun would finally rise, Icarus would become its eternal blaze, burning the same way his wings once did.