SONG LORE

Writing Process

Lately I’ve been fascinated by the Greek myth of Icarus. What drew me in was the idea of rewriting its ending, transforming it from a fear-driven warning of “follow these rules or die” into something more life-giving. Rules can protect us, yes, but growing up I was surrounded by far more than most kids. I lived a 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 on a high scream: “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 the idea with me for days.

At first I imagined the song as a sprawling, progressive piece like Beautiful, Terrible Parts I-III. Without a repeating chorus, more a journey from one point to another. But I kept circling back to that line about not being dead. It was too catchy and too defiant to let go. That became the chorus, the anchor point. From there the verses and bridge fell into place after 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 embodies the story’s arc: what begins as structure and limitation 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). Thus giving the time signature progression of the song a “4,5,6,7” feel… ascending numbers to further match the ascending themes in the song.

The soaring vocal melody in the bridge was actually inspired by a spiritual song my parents wrote when I was very young and snag to me throughout growing up. The lyrics of that song no longer resonate with me, but the melody always stayed. Bringing it into this song felt like reclaiming a piece of my past in a new form.

Song Meaning

If you’re unfamiliar with the myth: Daedalus, an inventor, was imprisoned with his son Icarus. To escape, Daedalus 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 heavy with water). Icarus tested the limits, flew too high, and fell into the ocean, where he was said to have drowned.

What bothered me about this story was the message: follow the rules or die. In my understanding of the story, I realized it wasn’t really Icarus who failed, it was the materials. Some might see Icarus as not smart for not following the rules. I see him as brave for testing the limits. Wax and string could never have sustained true flight. The rules weren’t wrong for what they were, but they were tied to limitations that kept Icarus small.

So in my version, Icarus doesn’t die. He sinks to the depths of the sea, alive but hidden, where the ocean becomes a symbol of shadow work, of diving inward to transform pain into strength. Down there he forges new wings, not of fragile wax but of fire and resonance. When he rises again, it’s not just back into the sky, but straight into the sun itself, a metaphor for ascending beyond the old self, beyond fear, into something limitless.

To be clear, in this re-telling, the father Daedalus is not the villain. He did the best he could with the materials he had. That’s how I’ve come to see my own upbringing. My parents gave me wings with the resources available to them. Their rules were strict, sometimes overly so, but they kept me safe. As I’ve grown older, I’ve built new wings, my own framework for spirituality and life. Leaving behind the strict religion I was raised in has given me the freedom to explore deeper, higher, and wider than those original rules allowed.

I no longer resent my parents for the limits they gave me. Instead, I thank them for gifting me my first wings. Without those, I might never have discovered how to forge my own.