Every so often I hear the echoes of the thunder chasing the lightening into the sea. It is faint and often I wonder if it is only my mind playing some terrible trick on me, but still, sometimes I hear the softest echo and I close my eyes and remember the beauty of it; the crash! of the lightening and the boom! of the thunder as it follows her—they are Apollo and Daphne, reborn in every storm. I close my eyes and see the rain falling in glistening drops into the open, rushing, grey-blue water and the sparkles that run through my brain and the momentary flash of white light that blinds me.
Oh, the silence now! I lived so long with the rush of life in my ears that the stillness now is hard to bear. I miss the tinkle of rain on a tin roof, the soaring strains of a violin, the creak of an old wooden door. The memory of these sounds is slowly fading, however intensely these sounds are embedded in my memory, and soon I will forget them, as I have already forgotten the smell of freshly cut grass and the taste of cinnamon. Memory always fades after a long enough time.
Who am I? Oh, I am no one, certainly not the hero you seek. I am only the conduit—“Sing, O Muse!” Icarus, we will call our hero, after he with his wax and feathers who flew too close to the sun. His sun, his Circe, burned too bright for him, her bright hair and eyes bewitching him, yet even now, the memory of his voice still makes her skin ripple with gooseflesh. She burned him until he fell and Orpheus watched from his lighthouse. Oh, Icarus, his story needs to be sung, to be told, so everyone might understand the wrong he was done. I'll try to tell it the best that I can.