#42
maybe—
it was never the intent of Icarus
to make Daedalus worry.
what kind of son would want
his loving father to cry?
maybe—
Icarus promised his old man:
Dad, I promise you,
I will make them apologize.
I myself will go to heaven
and demand the gods apologize
to you.
to you who did nothing wrong but obey;
to you who did nothing else
but try to keep his son safe;
to you whose story
the authors of this forsaken fairytale
took great interest in—
not for you,
not for the father,
but for entertainment.
to you whom,
given a thousand million chances to be reborn,
I—your son—
would always choose
to be my dad.
maybe—
this was Icarus’s promise.
and Daedalus, the ever-protective father,
sheltered his son
to the point of caging him
from the world—
and from all the hurt it carried.
unknowingly,
he was causing his son a different kind of pain.
but Icarus didn’t know that.
and even if he did,
he wouldn’t have minded.
it was what his father wanted.
and maybe—
just maybe—
when it was finally time to grow wings,
to spread them
elegantly,
fully,
Icarus realized
he could finally do it—
and Daedalus was too late
to stop him
from realizing what he could become.
and maybe—
in the end,
Icarus saw an opportunity
to finally—
finally—
meet the gods
and demand their apology.
not for himself.
not for whatever trouble
had been caused
or would be caused
in this trivial world.
what Icarus demanded
was the most sincere apology—
the one
his father
was always owed.
maybe—
it was the smile
only the sun witnessed
that proves
this was never a myth,
but what
truly,
truly
transpired.
Icarus never died.
Icarus never fell.
he lived fully.
and he transcended.