icarus

Last night, I dreamt that I was a bird,a dove painted red. My feathers, once symbols of peace and purity, were now drenched in a bold, jarring hue. It wasn’t a choice I had made, but the color felt inescapable, a marker of something I couldn’t fully understand.

I tried to fly. My wings stretched wide as I soared upward, chasing the sun. It felt close, as if its warmth was meant for me alone, a beacon calling me to ascend. The higher I flew, the more I felt the pull of freedom, the lightness of possibility.

But then, I was dragged down. It wasn’t a gentle descent or the kind of fall you recover from. It was violent, sudden, and absolute. I didn’t see who or what had grabbed me. All I knew was the weight, the force that yanked me from the sky and sent me spiraling downward.

And then I woke up, suffocating.

What Does It Mean to Be Pulled Down?

The dream lingered with me, heavy and unrelenting. What does it mean to rise, only to be dragged back down? To feel the possibility of reaching something greater, only to be reminded of the gravity that holds you? The red paint on my feathers felt like a symbol of everything I’ve been carrying: expectations, pain, unresolved conflicts. A mark that sets me apart but also weighs me down.

The suffocation I felt upon waking wasn’t just physical. It was the realization that no matter how high I try to fly, something unseen is always waiting to pull me back. It’s a cycle I’ve felt before, the tension between ambition and limitation, hope and fear.

The Struggle to Rise

In the dream, I didn’t stop trying. Even as I felt the pull, I kept flapping my wings, desperate to reach the sun. That’s what stands out to me now: the sheer force of will it takes to keep going, even when you don’t know what’s dragging you down. There’s something profoundly human about that struggle. We all have our red paint, our invisible weights. And yet, we keep striving, keep reaching for something brighter, even when the fall feels inevitable.

Maybe the dream wasn’t just about the struggle. Maybe it was about the courage to try to rise, to defy the weight, to keep moving upward even when the odds feel stacked against you. Or maybe it was a reminder that the fall, as painful as it is, doesn’t define the flight.

The Icarus Paradox

Thinking about my dream, I’m reminded of Icarus. The boy who flew too close to the sun, whose wings melted, sending him plummeting into the sea. For centuries, we’ve told his story as a cautionary tale a warning against hubris, against reaching too high. But I’ve always wondered: was it truly hubris, or was it a desire to transcend the limitations placed on him? Icarus didn’t just fly; he dared to dream beyond the constraints of what was expected, even if it cost him everything.

In some ways, Icarus’s flight feels less like a failure and more like a testament to the audacity of hope. To soar that high, even knowing the risks, is an act of defiance. And maybe that’s what my dream was trying to tell me: that the pull downward, the struggle to rise, and even the fall are all part of what it means to truly live. To stretch beyond your limits is not naive; it’s necessary. It’s what gives the flight meaning.

The red paint on my feathers may not be my choice, but it’s mine to carry. Like Icarus, I may fall. But what matters is the willingness to rise again and again, even if the world tries to drag me down.

Waking Up

When I woke up, gasping for air, I felt a sense of loss. But there was also a strange kind of clarity. The dream left me with questions I can’t fully answer yet, but it also left me with a resolve: to keep flying, red paint and all. To embrace the struggle as part of the journey, not just an obstacle to overcome.

What does it mean to be a red dove? I don’t know yet. But maybe it’s not about the meaning. Maybe it’s about the act of flying, the courage to rise, the willingness to fall, and the choice to keep going despite it all.