SONG LORE

Writing Process

Lately I have been fascinated by the Greek myth of Icarus. What drew me in was the idea of rewriting its ending, transforming it from a cautionary story about limits into something more life-giving. Rules can protect us, yes, but growing up I was surrounded by far more structure than most kids. I lived a pretty sheltered childhood, and that makes this theme feel especially personal.

The spark for the song came out of nowhere. I was in the car picking up lunch for my family when I suddenly blurted out, almost on instinct, on a repetition of several almost-yelled high notes:

"They say I'm dead!"

The response line immediately followed:

"But I'm more alive than I have ever been!"

I grabbed my phone, recorded it into Voice Memos, and carried that idea with me for days.

At first I imagined the song as a sprawling progressive piece like Beautiful, Terrible Parts I through III. Something more like a journey than a traditional song, moving from one place to another without a repeating chorus. But I kept circling back to that line about not being dead. It was too catchy and too defiant to let go of. That became the chorus, the anchor point. From there the verses and bridge slowly fell into place through countless voice memos and late night writing sessions.

One of my favorite discoveries came through the ascending guitar line in the chorus. The notes first came to me as harmonies there, lifting the section upward to mirror the ascension theme. Later, I realized those same notes could become the root chords of the verses too.

That shift gave the verses deeper meaning. They became the grounding, the first set of wings Icarus was given, while the chorus transformed those same notes into harmonies carried by new root chords underneath. In that way the music itself mirrors the story's arc. What begins as structure and limitation eventually becomes harmony and lift.

Musically I also wanted to stretch myself beyond my usual 4/4 comfort zone. The verses landed in 4/4, the pre-chorus pushed into 5/4, and the chorus took off in 6/4. The real challenge came with the bridge, where I alternated 4/4 and 3/4, or 7/4 depending how you count it. That gave the time signature progression of the song a subtle 4, 5, 6, 7 feeling. Ascending numbers that further echo the rising themes of the story.

The soaring vocal melody in the bridge was actually inspired by a song my parents wrote when I was very young and sang to me throughout my childhood. The lyrics of that song no longer resonate with me in the same way they once did, but the melody always stayed with me. Bringing it into this song felt like reclaiming a piece of my past and carrying it forward in a new form.

Under one of the videos above I mentioned trying different musical keys for my voice. We also experimented with varying tempos before deciding on a slightly faster one.

Choosing the key really came down to two questions. Which key feels natural for my voice, and can I sing it live without needing breaks?

When recording you can pause between takes, but if I cannot sing the full four minute song straight through live, that is a sign the key needs to come down a little. The goal is always to make sure the song works not just in the studio, but on stage.

Song Meaning

If you are unfamiliar with the myth, Daedalus was an inventor imprisoned with his son Icarus. To escape, he built wings from feathers, string, and wax. He warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun, lest the wax melt, or too close to the sea, lest the feathers grow damp and heavy with moisture from the ocean water below. Icarus tested the limits, flew too high, and fell into the ocean, where the traditional story says he drowned.

What intrigued me most about the myth was the tension between caution and curiosity.

In my understanding of the story, I began to wonder if the real problem was not Icarus himself, but the materials. Wax and string were never meant to sustain true flight. Some people see Icarus as reckless for pushing past the warnings. I tend to see him as brave for wanting to discover what was possible.

The rules were not wrong for what they were. They were simply built around the limitations of the wings he had at the time.

So in my version of the story, Icarus does not die.

He sinks to the depths of the sea, alive but hidden. The ocean becomes a symbol of shadow work, a place where someone goes inward to transform pain into strength. Down there he forges new wings, not fragile ones made of wax but wings made of fire and resonance.

When he rises again, it is not just back into the sky. He flies straight into the sun itself, a metaphor for moving beyond the old self, beyond fear, into something limitless.

In this re-telling, Daedalus is not the villain either. He did the best he could with the materials he had.

That is how I have come to see my own upbringing.

My parents gave me the first set of wings they knew how to build. The structure I grew up with shaped me in important ways and kept me grounded when I was young. As I have gotten older, I have had to test those wings for myself, exploring how far they could carry me and where I needed to build something stronger.

I do not look back on those early limits with frustration anymore. I see them as the first wings I was given.

Without them, I might never have learned how to build my own.

And if all goes according to plan, the first time these new wings are tested with this song in front of a crowd may be very soon.