The rise is exhilarating. The flight is heavenly. You are surrounded by praise and adoration. You are loved. It gives you a false sense of confidence, an empty facade of invincibility, a foolish belief that you can fly higher than you are capable, because in that hastily obsession with flight, you never took the time to learn the virtue of humility.
You fly towards the sun, it's glorious warmth only matched by being completely engulfed in its presence. However, wax wings were not built for such magnificence. They were never intended for greatness.
As the wings slowly melt, as you begin to descend, the light begins to fade, the chill begins to crawl across your skin. You don't fall instantly; it feels like it last for years. Each second is a regret of the shortcuts you took, of never paying your dues. Each forceful gust of violent wind is a reminder of what you once had and the cruel reality of it being stripped away. Maybe even realizing that you never had them to begin with.
When the torturous fall finally ends, you hit the ground, and wake up in complete darkness, terrified at the discovery that this is where the real torture begins. You are accompanied only by your lost moments of glory. They are your only companions. Your demons.
You huddle naked, crouched in a cold corner, the open wounds sting as the damp mist drips down your back. It is here you realize that wings should never be made from wax. They should be made from materials of fortitude - the broken shards of failures and disappointments, from the scattered remnants of heartbreak. They are made from lessons of defeat and sewn together in a jigsaw pattern of unmatched colors by the hands of hope and despair. The wings are horrendously ugly, but they are yours.
This is where you should have started your ascent. Not in the clear blue skies of manufactured bliss, but in the dark pits of Hell, where you're forced to create your own light, because then, you'll never need the sun.