The Fall of Icarus

I love this painting by Brueghel.  I always have.  Poor Icarus falls, probably screaming, to his death, wings disintegrating, wax running, and the farmer continues to plow, the shepherd tends his sheep, the ship sails on.  His troubles do not trouble the world.  He makes no mark on anyone, not even in his moment of greatest distress.  It's a perfect model for the way the world works.

I feel Icarus' pain today.  My wings are coming apart, and I can see the water rushing closer and closer.  Impact is imminent.  I know it's going to close over my head, fill my screaming mouth, and that will be the end.  I will just disappear.  There will be nothing to mark my passage except a feather or two floating on the apathetic waves.  They'll suit somebody else up with wax and festive plumage and toss them high, be amused as they circle and dart, and then yawn when the inevitable occurs. 

They're pulling me apart piece by piece.  I wish I could summon up a righteous fury or soar again on a draft of renewal, but all I can think of is that nothing I do makes any difference to anyone in any way at all...it's all just feathers caught in currents, spiraling into an endless ocean of salt and senselessness.