Before another word is read, must be remembered: Icarus flew. Soaring high on hobbled wings he was free. As the labyrinth walls receded in the distance, Icarus was free. The sun shone seemingly for him alone. He was free. Then the crowd would tell you that something wrong happened. Perhaps he was too young, perhaps he was too shocked by the joy mingled with danger, or perhaps he was simply too free… as if that is possible. But that’s what they would have told you—the sycophantic cynics.
They would criticize. They would point out that he flew too high. That’s what people say. His death is sure. They would say with a disguised glee, camouflaged behind concerned faces. It is his fault, called it upon himself—they might dismiss as they turned their backs. As Icarus plunged back to the earth, these naysayers were the ones who were too busy consoling Daedalus at his loss to pay attention to the outcast Icarus. He had committed the biggest sin of all—he had refused to succumb for mediocrity and instead strove for excellence.
Icarus in his plunge to the earth was still drunk. The sensation of the wind billowing, buffeting, racing past his flesh. The feedom! By god he was free! He had flown. He had soared. Racing, raging far above those who never even dared to step out of their own front doors. He had shot above the world and soared above the rest. Defiant shout, defiant pride. The ground raced towards him. He met what he knew would be a crushing collision with a laughing grimace. His barbaric yawp resounded ferocious. If he was to die, he would make a go of it. Icarus had Flown!
In the collision he almost died. Almost. In the raspy breathing of collapsed lungs Icarus had no time to focus on his pain: he had touched the sun—He had flown. His body torn and bloodied, fought against each and every movement. Broken arms would mend. Broken wings would be rebuilt. With all his strength he struck the blows of hammer to anvil. Tinsel steel would be used to reinforce. Faltering flights were undertaken. Others might laugh. Others might scoff. Icarus could not focus on the naysayers… he had tasted flight. The glory of his creation would not be used to shield from the scoffers… but to soar. He knew freedom. He would reach. He would attain. He would fly again. He knew no other way.
Muscles grew strong as wings grew light. The two became one. He walked to the edge of the cliff. He had waited too long. The call of the sky was in his blood. It had beckoned so strong. He would risk. Although all too familiar with the pain, some of which lingered still, he knew he had to risk. He was ready to live so he was ready to die. He began to run towards the precipice. In his rushing steps he heard the crashing of the waves below the cliff. His heart knew fear, but he would not allow it to be his master. If anything he only ran faster as if in defiance. With a grunt he sped past the point of stopping. At the cliff’s edge, he leapt.
And it must be remembered: Icarus flew. I hold his legacy. Icarus flew. Icarus flew, and he flies still.
He is a legend.
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