burning like icarus
I thought the word, “burnout” (exhaustion from constant fatigue) came from Greek mythology, that story of Icarus flying too close to the sun, melting his waxen wings and drowning to death.
Well, it doesn’t. But doesn’t that make so much sense?
It sounds like a silly story the first time you hear it but as you grow older, it becomes scarily relatable. Icarus knew his wings were made of wax, he was warned about what the sun would do to them but he pushed himself anyway. His foolishness is easy to condemn but it’s the same kind that’s so easy to ignore in ourselves.
We know we are just flesh, blood and bones, held loosely together by interdependent systems. Yet our own limits are so easy to overlook. We think we can stretch them, we think we’re special and the burden we put on our bodies won’t catch up to us.
I’m no different. I write this with exhaustion fogging my brain — but if concise thoughts manage to gleam through it anyway, why should I bother clearing it?
I see no problem in the sting of fatigue pricking my eyes, ignoring my body’s pleas to let it rest. I ignore the constant anxiety that has made home in my chest, how it whirls sickeningly in my throat, how it makes it tighten as my obligations stack on top of each other, on the verge of toppling over. It’s okay. What choice do I have?
What choice do any of us have in a world where the value of our lives is secondary to profit? We can’t help being propelled higher and higher by the fear of what will become of us if we don’t do enough. So we pretend our wings are made of steel, not wax.
Even when we feel the heat brush too close to our skin, the glowing ball of fire seems far less scary than the idea of splattering onto the ground; a far more brutal destruction. It’s either rock-bottom or soaring high enough to burn out, very few of us can afford the luxury of floating comfortably in midair. Of not being afraid of being dragged down to the earth, nor feeling forced to soar beyond our limits.