If Icarus fell in Autumn

They always say Icarus fell in summer. With wings melting, sunlight blazing, a story told as  a warning.  

But I don’t think that’s true.  

I think he fell in autumn.  

When the days had already begun to shorten, when light didn’t blaze anymore but lingered soft, tired and golden.  

The world was quieter.  

The air felt different, like it was holding its breath. Even Helios, the sun god seemed to  dim a little earlier in the evening, as if he too needed rest.  

I don’t think his wings ever melted. I think they simply grew heavy with cold air and time.  The wax cracked quietly. Feathers drifted off like leaves, floating in soft spirals of orange,  brown, white.  

Not a dramatic fall, but a gradual surrender. The way we all do, when we realize we can’t keep flying the way we did in summer.  

Daedalus might have called after him. But how do you teach someone to land when all  they’ve ever known is how to rise?  

I like to imagine he didn’t crash into the sea.  

He landed somewhere gentle. Earth damp with morning mist, the world smelling of rain  and distant fires.  

And instead of fear, he felt something else. The strange calm that comes when you stop  running from change and finally let it arrive.  

Somewhere in the distance, Persephone began her descent underground. Not in tragedy,  but in a necessity. Carrying with her the quiet promise that even in darkness, seeds are  preparing to bloom again.  

I think Icarus saw that. The way the world withdraws not to die, but to rest.  

That’s what this time feels like. A pause between what was and what’s coming. A time  where everything slows, softens. Fields empty, skies pale, yet there is comfort in the  stillness. A quiet kind of hope that is not loud like summer, but steady, like a candle in cold  hands.  

Maybe Icarus didn’t fall because he failed. Maybe he landed because it was time to. 

And maybe that is what Autumn teaches us, that the sky doesn’t have to be a destination and the earth doesn’t have to be defeat.  

That sometimes, the most courageous thing you can do is drift back down, gently, knowing  that even after everything has fallen, spring will always find its way back.

17.11.2025