Both Directions Kill You

There is no middle.

Everyone seems to remember that Icarus flew too close to the sun, but not that his father also told him not to fly too low and let the sea dampen his wings. We only ever tell half the story: the falling half. Because hubris makes a better cautionary tale than mediocrity does. Daedalus understood something we don’t like to admit.

Both directions kill you. The only safe altitude is the one that requires constant adjustment.

I’ve seen what it costs to grip something too tightly. The thing you’re holding starts taking pieces of you with it. And somewhere between telling other people’s stories, writing my own, and trying to be useful to both, I’ve stopped believing the answer is balance.

The real choice is simpler and far worse. Be viciously mediocre with the time you have, or absolutely and unashamedly get after it. Fly low and drown quietly, or fly high and risk the fall. The difference between all in and all consumed is smaller than it looks from the ground.

One starves you, the other erodes you. The only trick is learning to feel the wax soften before the feathers go. To know the difference between burning and being on fire. To make sure it’s the work you’re devouring, and not yourself.