How easy was it to soar, if only we dared to lift our feet from the ground. The myth of Icarus is not merely a tale of a young man with melted wings of wax. Though the sun burned him down, is it not the crueler fate to have never leapt at all? To never feel the wind against your skin as proof you are finally rising? We are angels with clipped wings of our own making, eyes sharpened by criticism and self-doubt yet blind to our own light. But you— of whom was forged from every scar and ache that shaped your spine. Why must you forget how beautiful this world has become just from your touch? You are your own dawn peaking through the first morning light. And that first flight, no matter how fleeting, is still flight.