Icarus. Nik Belov
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or the washing of permanent ink away. It is the nature of predetermined. When once set in motion, it must follow the prescribed course. Throughout the vast expanse of a furrowed field, one finds the essence of free will, rather it is in the labour of cultivation, in the toil of improvement, or in the creation of meaning from mere soil; yet beyond such earthen boundaries, the lucid liberty becomes elusive. Just as the freedom of man exists within the confines of divine providence of our Creator, young and resolute Icarus could reach only as high as Daedalus and the given wings would permit him.
IV
I shall now bid farewell to Icarus, if only for a fleeting moment. My strong desire is to banish thoughts of him, at least for the evening, as I again embark upon another nocturnal literary endeavour beneath the shroud of night. Not long ago, I spoke of the mythmaker, that is being embodied by Daedalus and others of his ilk, those rare souls or beings blessed with the ability to not merely transcend existence, but to mould and transmute it into something altogether more profound. The mythmaker, whereas perhaps not occupying the loftiest position in the pantheon of universal creators, nevertheless brushes against those ethereal, hidden recesses of the stellar realm where most of the mysteries dwell. Yet, as with all things in the mortal coil, there exist stark contrasts, and for every mythmaker who graces our world, there dwells another who lacks such divine gifts – indeed, some who actively seek to demolish those humble myths and extinguish any signs of hope. However, such a talk must wait for another day, for it bears no place in our present dialogue with you. Instead, I wish to momentarily meander down the different path, one that contemplates the profound disparity between the mythmaker and the one I must call man stone or homo lapis – perhaps the tragic figure whose fate is sealed either in meaningless obscurity, that is, existential absurd or in sacrifice to the grand design of someone, a mere cog in the great wheel of microevolution, turning ever so slowly through the ages of passing.
I posit that our reality is not merely multifaceted, but rather exists in “myriad quantitative dimensions”, each layer interweaving with the next in an intricate domain of existence. In one of my forthcoming treatises, which might grace the world in the coming year, I delve into such conundrum with greater depth. However, too soon it is to go there. Let us entertain the notion that reality is an elaborate web, a grand mythological story crafted by an enigmatic mythmaker. While it may prove more comforting to attribute the direction of history to the Creator, such a perspective would render humanity utterly insignificant in such a cosmic theatre. Though man is indeed diminutive in the face of the infinite, we must contemplate the intriguing possibility that one might ascend to the role of mythmaker, much like Daedalus; he stands as a testament to the extraordinary potential of humanity. I harbour the conviction that mythmakers walk amongst us, though they are as rare as precious gems in the vast desert. Perhaps only one shall ultimately emerge as the true architect of our collective story. Precisely, the myth speaks sparingly of the ascension of Daedalus, yet one might speculate that his journey paralleled the tribulations of his son, who, in his own right, sought to emulate the destiny of the father. Regardless of personal inclination, I find myself passionately drawn to explore the mythmaker as an archetype or destination, translating the timeless concept into our contemporary reality, which is also an enduring mythological construct; such translation becomes particularly poignant when we consider that our perceived reality is but the continuation of an age-old narrative, stretching back through the corridors of time like the golden thread, the glorious continuum, weaving together the fabric of human mind and experience.
In the grand scheme of things, I can venture a thought: much as the very angels, each bestowed with their purpose and variable in the cosmic arithmetic, the Creator may have similarly graced certain mortals with roles that echo across the universe. For indeed, every narrative, every precious thread woven throughout time, must be in motion, necessitating those chosen few who shall orchestrate such sublime movement. No, it transcends mere technological advancement or ideological metamorphosis. It rather speaks to the very spiritual ascension. An elevation towards the ineffable unknown. Herein lies the paramount quest of humanity – not merely to comprehend the unfathomable, but to master the wild nature of it – to bring order to the chaos and to tame it. Therefore, whereas the metaphysical realm lurks behind the adamantine door, humanity, with the insatiable curiosity, will continue the fevered attempts to glimpse even the faintest shadows of it. Yet, “tis the mythmaker, that rare man blessed with vision and voice, who shall ultimately unlock the mystical gates, bridging the chasm between the known and the unknowable, between the mundane and the divine, ending our prolonged slumber; and Icarus longs to be the one.
In contrast to the saviour that I fashioned of the mythmaker, I could not conceive of a more fitting designation than to call the antipode the man stone, for it is destined, like a miserable pebble, to merely descend through the waters and settle amidst the silt and shadows of the depths below. The realisation that one is fated for such a role can be utterly devastating, a weight really heavier than the stone. But one must not tremble before or resist the grand design, for it is as inevitable as the turning of the seasons, as immutable as the laws that govern our existence. For all time, I have maintained unwavering honesty with you, and I must confess that perhaps we both might prove to be nothing more than simple cobbles, cast into the great waters. More to it, there exists another dimension to the truth. While one might take countless attempts to forge a different destiny, to carve out the path distinct from that which was predetermined, another might comprehend their insignificance from the very moment of their first breath. Whatever intricate plot might unfold in the middle chapters of our existence, the finale remains eternally fixed, and everything that follows bears neither significance nor presents any worthy cause for which to wage battle. Such a phenomenon might be regarded as the peculiar form of catharsis, a purging of meaning and the simultaneous absence of it, notwithstanding that, much like any property in the art of alchemy, one might imbue the own existence with whatever significance one desires; but the sole distinction lies in the fundamental verity. Only that which is written by the Creator constitutes genuine truth, while everything conceived by minds of humans, no matter how elaborate or ingenious, remains but the melancholy fabrication, a shade of authentic meaning cast upon the walls of our understanding. In the end, one must pray for the mythmaker to be.
V
In the quietude of my musings, I find myself drawn to reveal the deepest truth about what echoes within the divine realm. I believe that at the very core dwells true love, not simply as the fleeting sentiment, but as an eternal force. Such love, pristine and genuine, when born and cultivated in the human spirit, harmonises perfectly with the grand architecture of existence. And so, my contemplation turns to Icarus, whose tale whispers not of haughtiness alone, but of something infinitely more profound, which is his longing reached beyond mere vanity, towards the azure Mediterranean expanse of Sicily. Such is the bearing of divine imprint – to be fashioned in the image of the Creator. As it is, the revelation pierces me with exquisite sorrow, for like Icarus, I too have known the depths of love – a healing love who many comprehend only in their falling. For love surpasses mere fondness. It is truly an all-consuming dread of separation, an immense terror that stretches beyond the boundaries of my or the comprehension of anyone. Like a shadow that grows longer at twilight, such fear expands until it engulfs the very human heart. So does Icarus, utterly possessed by the fierce grip of love. To fully understand love is to willingly embrace all perils, even if it culminates in the tragic descent. For to truly fathom love, one must inevitably relinquish it, much as Icarus surrendered all. Thus, only when I lastly gaze upon my burning wings and the diminishing silhouette of my beloved sun can I truly grasp the exquisite beauty and anguish of my love towards it.
And no, please, do not presume that love bestows answers to each human question, for it surely does not. Indeed, love offered no solace to Icarus. It rather stood witness to his tragic demise. In the entirety, the myth veils the presence of eminent love in Icarus. Were Icarus amongst us, we might fail to know the depths of his passion. None would perceive that behind his gaze burned an untameable desire to embrace the obscurity. And I am sure, the root of the