Atlas, Icarus, and Calypso
You were with me last night.
We were walking alongside the bridge. It was pitch black, with only the handful of cars running down the road, and the streetlights guiding us on our steps. You whispered a joke, and I broke into a laugh, breaking the quietness as we passed by the houses at night. But oddly, I can’t remember the joke you uttered into my ear. I can only recall how you looked at me, with your eyes reflecting the moonlight as I threw back my head in the midst of laughter. In the dead of the night, I was grateful you kept our circle awake, and alive. And for the first in a long time, I started to feel alive too.
But, there was something amiss. I couldn’t shake my head on it. We stopped walking when we reached the top of the bridge. We looked far ahead and saw a sea of black, a cloud of nothingness. Utterly devoid, and utterly peaceful. You grabbed my hand, with careful ease. I looked into your eyes, and I saw you staring at me, your eyes asking for permission if you ought to hold it, or let loose and let my hand go.
I smiled and squeezed your hand. And that surprised me. Because I never let anyone hold my hand. I was used to carrying everything, having the burden on my shoulders, the weight on my back — it was painful, but it was pain I grew accustomed to. I never knew I could share the burden, I never realized someone can take it away willingly, even if it’s just for a little while.
In a typical stereotypical Asian household, I was used to being an Atlas — always with the burden of my family between my shoulders, and always carrying the world beneath my back. And I accepted the sad reality that while others could fly, I would be Icarus, always longing to escape, and always longing to leave, but always flying too close to the sun, and accepted that my dreams could never be. I’ve grown accustomed to the reality that I was Calypso, always asking people to love me, but never enough to let them stay.
But it never occurred to me that Hercules was there, even for the slightest of moments, to bear the weight and let Atlas breathe. I never took note that Daedalus aided Icarus in crafting his wings, also sharing his dream to escape. And I never realized that Odysseus stayed with Calypso to ease her loneliness, even if it was temporary. Because in that moment, you gave me comfort. I grew up in a culture where physical touch was taboo and unheard of. But you, holding my hand, was a nice change of scenery, a core memory I didn’t want to forget, I couldn’t choose to forget, even if I tried.
We looked at each other. My eyes were wide and filled with worry, while looking into yours felt safe. You told me I’ll be okay. You told me I deserve to be happy, that it was right for me to chase the sun, and to leave in a place I don’t feel safe calling home. And that filled me up with worry even more.
Because I grew up in a typical stereotypical household. I was never told happiness was a goal, and that leaving was more than okay. Because I had the weight of the sky on my shoulders, and I knew I could never fly too close to the sun. The gods have looked down on me with a curse to never leave, and after desperate attempts, I succumbed and accepted that this was the reality for me.
So I stood there. I held your hand. At the top of the bridge, where the river was calm, and the moon was amiss. It was the dead of night, and the only thing lighting us up was the streetlamp flickering. You looked at me, again. You held my hand, tighter this time. And without warning, you jumped over the bridge, taking me with you.
Unprepared, I screamed. A split second later, the impact of the water hit my body. I closed my eyes and opened them to the darkness, I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t feel you. In a panic, I searched. You were nowhere to be found. And I couldn’t hold my breath any longer.
The next thing I knew, I was gasping for air. I sat up and looked around. The pillow was wet, and the sun was up. The weight is once again on my shoulders, the sunlight gazing at the window reminds me of the island I grew up, and I knew the dream was left at that — a dream.
I longed to forget. But I couldn’t. Because in that dream, I forgot that Atlas had to carry the weight after Hercules finished his task, and Icarus flew too close to the sun despite the warnings of his father. And I was both. And I was Calypso. Knowing no matter how hard I tried, I was and am cursed to stay in the island I can never call my home.
But, maybe in my dreams. I can see you again. Maybe in trying to forget, I can actually make it out. That the sky won’t be on my back, and that the weight, for once, will be shared. Maybe in that dream, the sun didn’t melt my wings, and we actually escaped. And maybe during that night, I was able to overcome the curse the gods have uttered upon me.
Maybe that dream, with you, will be enough to keep me going. Maybe, I just needed someone to carry the sky, to fly away, and to break the curse, with me while holding my hand.
