Atleast He Flew

Witty Banter

Today's topic has been up on the list for a really long time. I have a major pet peeve: people giving up on their goals just because it seems hard. I know some of you might roll your eyes, but hey — this is my blog. If you like it, great. If you don’t, that’s fine too. But what really ticks me off isn’t just the mindset — it’s how one of my favourite stories gets misinterpreted. The story everyone read and misinterpreted - The myth of Icarus.

We all know how the story ends. Icarus, the boy with wings made of feathers and wax, climbs too high. Drunk on the thrill of flight, he ignores his father's warning, flirts with the sun — and pays for it with his life. The wax melts, the feathers scatter, and Icarus plummets into the sea. That’s the part people remember: the fall. But what if we’ve misunderstood the story? What if the fall wasn’t failure — but the price of something greater? What if we stopped treating Icarus as a cautionary tale… and started seeing him as a kind of hero?

So, let us get to business.

A quick Flight through the myth

For those who haven’t revisited the myth since school: Daedalus was a brilliant inventor imprisoned by King Minos of Crete. Along with his son Icarus, he was trapped inside a tower after helping Theseus escape the infamous Labyrinth — a twisting maze Daedalus himself had designed. Desperate for freedom, Daedalus crafted two sets of wings made from feathers and wax, one for him and one for Icarus. Before they took flight, he warned his son: fly too low and the sea will drag you down; fly too high and the sun will melt your wings. Stay in the middle. Balanced. Careful. Safe. But as they soared into the sky, Icarus, overtaken by joy and awe, ignored the warning. He rose higher and higher — until the sun claimed him.

Thats how the story ended but you know what really annoys me is how the ending is interpreted. Most people interpret it as how Icarus was over ambitious and that caused his downfall but maybe we are forgetting to look at the bigger picture.

The Myth Was Never Meant to Be Comfortable

We love to tidy up myths into digestible little lessons. “Don’t fly too high,” we say, nodding as if it's obvious. “Be humble. Don’t be reckless. Know your limits.” But lets just pause for a second. Think. What kind of lesson really is that? "Don't dream too big"? "Play safe"? "Don’t chase what sets your soul on fire"? "Keep your head down and your ambition smaller than the ceiling they built for you"?

No. I think we are reading the wrong part of the story. I think the myth of Icarus is not a warning against flying too high. I think it’s a quiet rebellion against a life lived too low. It is not about whether or not he flew too close or not, it was about that he actually flew. 

At Least He Flew

Icarus lived in a prison before he flew — the Labyrinth, a twisted metaphor of constraints, expectations, and silence. He was told what to do, where to go, what not to touch. Even in escape, he’s told how to fly. “Not too high, not too low,” Daedalus says. “Somewhere in the middle.” But there’s nothing poetic about the middle. The middle doesn’t sing. The middle doesn’t catch fire. So Icarus disobeys. He climbs, higher and higher, until the sun is no longer something distant — it’s right there, breathing on his skin. His wings begin to tremble. The wax begins to drip. But gods, imagine the view. The wind screaming in his ears, the sea far below, the sun above — and for the first time, he’s not escaping. He’s becoming. He’s not a fugitive — he’s free. And yes, he fell. But at least he flew.

Risk is needed for higher returns

We really admire the world we built around us, the world that glorifies comfort. Stay safe. Stay consistent. Minimise risk. Optimise outcomes. But look around. Everything around us, be it science, art, literature, revolution, love- all came from people who flew too close to things that could've led to their descent. It came from those who were told “no,” and flew anyway.

Think of Galileo, who was imprisoned for peering too far into the heavens. Think of Frida Kahlo, who turned her pain into colour. Think of explorers who sailed off the edge of the map. Entrepreneurs who burned every safety net. Lovers who crossed continents. Poets who cracked themselves open just to leave behind a few lines of something eternal. None of them were safe. But all of them flew.

The tragedy isn't the Fall- it's never Taking Off

We ridicule Icarus for being foolish, but maybe the real tragedy is Daedalus — the careful father who survived, but never tasted the sun. And that’s the quiet message buried under layers of interpretation: playing it safe doesn’t mean you win. It just means you survive. But surviving isn’t the same as living. Not everyone wants to live a life of calculated restraint, of never leaping for fear of falling. Some of us — maybe most of us, deep down — want to feel that dangerous freedom. That ache to touch the untouchable, even for a moment, even if it costs us everything.

We need more Icaruses

We need more people who are ready to do the impossible. People who ignore rules. People who risk ruin because they believe something greater exists just beyond reach. Not because they're ignorant. But they truly feel alive when they do it. They know the difference between living and surviving. Even if they fail , they will have that satisfaction of trying to do the impossible. Let’s stop romanticizing only the survivors. Let’s not forget the ones who fell chasing beauty, truth, art, meaning — those who died not in defeat, but in pursuit. They weren’t failures. They were risk-takers. They are what Icarus truly felt.

Next time someone says you to not fly too high, just ask them: "What's the point of wings, then?"

If you fall, you fall.
But maybe, just maybe —
you’ll fly.