Makeshift Phoenix

As Icarus fell, he...

"Cried in despair."

"Laughed?"

"Wallowed in regret..."

"Smiled, proud as he was."

"He was relieved!"

...

Had Icarus been listening, he would be shaking his head.

Because as the wax that bound his wings melted.

As he descended, still facing the blinding rays of the Sun.

As the wind echoed in his ear whilst he plunged to his death.

He...

Was.

"Was? Was what?"

He was.

He cried.

Laughed.

Despaired.

Relaxed.

But he realized that.. it wasn't just one or the other.

And living all his years as he sought to soar beyond the clouds, he finally understood.

That freedom...

Could never be encapsulated with one single word.

Not with an ideal outcome or finish line.

As freedom simply...

Was.

Never to be sought.

Not to be navigated.

Nor to be yearned.

Because...

How can you chase something that is already within your grasp?

Blind, he truly was.

Yet he was glad even as he was rueful.

For as he felt his life nearing close its end...

He could finally say...

"..I am."