Icarus: Atheist

A story.
A walk.
An experience.
He questioned it, pondered it, savoured it almost, his taste buds tingling, the hairs on the back of his neck, standing. He felt like a cliché, a sell-out for such pretentious musings, but revelled in their psycho-somatic manifestations, and the prism it placed on the world around him.The simplification before him levelled his heart, and lightened his mind like some drug bought off a street corner.The bitter sweet after-taste due to his awareness of it's effect. It's reductionist nature bought at once a sense of diving close enough into this basic human condition while not being burnt by the inevitable nihilism which underlies all such undertakings. His escape from Crete, a womb of sorts, was not to be marred any longer by the sun because he knew the dangers.

He knew them too well as a sadness crept in and the lines of cuts on his arms glistened in the crescent moon, reminding him of past reveries and the brutal realisation process that ensued. So all that he was left with was a blank page, upon which all was a mere construct,a series of lies and delusions. Such a burn had sent him in the past hurtling down to the sea, towards ignorance and drowning, towards that all too real suffocation.

No clever words, nor pretty turns of phrase could detract from it, or form an alternative to this gaping truth. No saintly religion or colourful philosophy could fully block out this black sun and it's distressing rays. One had simply to distract oneself, look at the fish below.

One always feels the sun reddening one's skin, scorching it, bubbling it (reason and incredulity dictated that he never really had a choice in that respect). His life would have to play out this way, unable to "combler le vide", living on a knife's edge as it were. Teetering on the fine line between meaning and nothingness, while making sure the wax of his wings did not melt, though having to put up with searing heat and more often then not burning flesh.