The Moral of Icarus
Originally published 20.10.2014.
Beginning a new journey is as difficult as beginning anything with meaning; it's hard to know where to start. Much like a story for which you've written only the middle and the end, oftentimes you wish you could just jump straight in at the 6th chapter, at a point where everything has begun to make sense and take shape.
I've always believed that this is because first steps are invariably the hardest ones to take. It can be easy to forget sometimes that you have to learn to crawl before you learn to walk, even if it occasionally feels like it'd be easier to simply lie there; an immobile, immovable object with no desire to drift and no need to change trajectory.
Over the last few weeks, I've seen a number of films that have inspired the urge to venture out into the world again. The films that have begun to re-stoke this passion in me have each dealt with the invasive discontentment that can descend upon us as we grow and change. More importantly, these films have focused on the desire to escape that downward spiral and emerge as someone better. Someone great.
So why is it so difficult? Why do we fear journeying into the unknown? Probably for the same reason we fear the dark as children; we have no idea what's out there and it seems far more logical to remain in the safety of our beds. This is a mindset I've fallen into time and again. I'm 28 years old and it often feels as if all I have to show for it is plans and hypotheticals. Plans are important, but it's finding the distinction between a solid idea and a pipe dream that matters. Once you've figured that out? Hell, maybe it's better to shoot high.
It's all how you look at the glass. Is the moral of Icarus that he flew too close to the sun? No. It's that he fucking flew.
So I suppose, in the end, it boils down to a choice:
Would you rather fall on your face from 10ft or 1000ft? Either way it's going to sting like hell; you might as well enjoy a good view on the way down. You might see something beautiful.