A Prison, Still

A golden prison. But a prison, still.

I have not known no other pain than those I read in books.

And I love to dwell in them so much.

I looked through the window as the sunlight caressed my hand resting on the table. I have finished reading the book I am holding but still don't have the energy to put it back on the shelf.

One thing I like in being inside the library is that it's quiet in here. Second, there's not much people and I don't have to drain my energy in socializing. Lastly, I like the feeling of being surrounded with books.

I am surrounded with thousand stories immortalized in time. And if I got all the moment in the world, I wish to read them all.

I rested my head on the table and let the soft afternoon sunlight warm my cheeks. With the memory of the sun, I remember a story about someone who tried to reach it.

Icarus.

The son of Daedalus, a skillful craftsman and the builder of the famous Labyrinth. Once, they were imprisoned. Icarus' father created gigantic wings made of feather and waxes. And to escape, they flew—defying the laws of nature and gravity.

Icarus was warned by his father not to fly too close to the sun. But he was too young and curious. And flying closer to the sun, he did. The wings melted and he fell from the sky, drowned to death.

I let my eyes close its lids as the sunlight felt too overwhelming to welcome. Icarus' death was one of the tragedies I grieved in books.

But sometimes, I wonder why a tragedy like his has to be scribbled and immortalized—be read by future readers?

Why does the pain had to be passed by generations? Daedalus' tears of his son's death might have not been enough.

I didn't notice how long I was resting my head on the table. And with the silence of my surrounding, I think that I've fallen asleep in the middle of my deep thoughts.

--

"Son, are you awake?"

I was awoken by the strange sound of metals clanging... and an unfamiliar voice of a man who calls me his son.

The soft afternoon sunlight is still caressing my skin but I noticed that I am not in the library anymore. I am in a small room with a wooden door and a single rusty window bar.

Beside me is a man whose exhaustion is visible in the face. His hands held mine and I can feel the rough callouses in his palms. He wears a white tunic that is stained with dirt and I realized that I am wearing one too.

"I've already found a way on how we're going to escape this tower, Icarus."

Icarus.

Did he just call me Icarus?

I guess, I am dreaming. I looked around me. Things feel surreal. I turned again to the man who called me his son.

"Icarus, we'll gonna escape! Do you hear me?"

Gladness is visible in his somber eyes. I couldn't help but nod in response. Because if it is indeed a dream, I might as well not ruin that gladness and hope.

But it is not a dream, I realized. Two days had passed after I woke up in this familiar and yet, strange place. In the identity of the famous Icarus with the man who claimed to be his father.

In the span of two days, Daedalus spent all his time in creating his so-called wings made of wax and feathers. And I sometimes help him with it.

As he creates a way to escape in this prison, I try to find out the reason why I am trapped in this realm.