Scattered around this landscape, like boulders,
Spat out by some glacial flow, these stoney losses
Litter the ground which has been crossed to arrive
At "Here". Teetering up near the ridgeline,
Huge rocks, poised to fall. Sisyphus, endlessly
Rolling his boulder back to the top of the hill.
Such futile pushing. I feel the fear rising, as I
Imagine those huge lumps of rock, crashing and tumbling,
Imagine the carnage they will leave in their wake.
And when they land, what's left? A barren field of stones.
Look again behind you. Each piece of rock distinctive,
Unique. Feel the weight of pushing those boulders,
Year after year after year. What if Sisyphus could
Simply walk away? Leave the stone where it sits,
Rooted by gravity? Walk, slowly at first, towards
Something new. Scared of the sudden weightlessness
Of his existence, he's tempted to walk back, to start
Once more that endless, futile pushing. Comfort
Of the familiar. Leave this field of stones. Let them
Fall where they will. Live without the weight.