Daedalus crafted the wings.
Hope, yes, amid the rush of creativity.
Any feel of foreboding?
Any propitiating offerings to Helios then or now?
That might have helped.
Hubris did not.
Ikarus drowned, a plunge into the sea offshore of your craggy bulk.
A downwards pull.
The weight of body, the weight of guilt.
No feathers or melted wax to mark the spot.
No blood, no splintered bones leaking marrow onto your rocks.
No relics, just myth.
Ikaria lives on, celebrating a triumphal moment, little made of the loss.
Daedalus recovered.
Imminent loss, always a moment afar, then here, inured the Hellenic soul.
There were still temples to build, Circe to bed, say some.
Counterweights to the loss of a son.
Ikaria
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Critica is an inclusive and transdisciplinary publishing platform that focuses on offering a reflective and aesthetic space to consider social and cultural issues through a psychoanalytic and creative lens. It is also a forum for ideas at the intersection of psychoanalysis, creativity, philosophy, and the social sciences.
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