Grow Some Stones (A meditation on life's struggles)
Sisyphus: The Tryhardest
You go on in life, and you get on in life, like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill. Those small moments of satisfaction haunt you more than anything else. If you could only get back to that, if I could only get back to that. Just like a drug addict attempts to reach that high again but a peak's a peak because it only happens once. Someone said once you sleep on feathers you can't go back to sleeping on the floor. There you are, forever in servitude to the ideals you sought to make things easier. The convenience of easy access cripples your legs. You remember a good moment, a high point. Mine's a girl taking a sip of wine, smiling in a shirt and underwear. It's a curse. It's not better to have even liked and lost. But we're joyed to mock the drug addict as if they're not fundamentally the same as the food addict, the pill addict, the adrenaline addict, the anything-doer, the fanatical man. We can pretend they're not fundamentally the same as the mad scientist, the endurance athlete, the entrepreneur, philanthropist, hitman slash world's greatest dad on weekends. So if you were to chase the horizon, you'd never catch it, and not because the world's round. If you were to view it with infinite magnification the image would not be any more clear. The reason is it isn't there. Loving another is too heavy to consider in its totality. They're heavy when you take them serious. That's the point where you rock backward into a decline where you can't rebound. That's when the rock falls out of your hands grasp near the hilltop. So fuck that, fuck the boulder, fuck the lover. Or better yet I'm the fucking boulder. I'm the Juggernaut, bitch! And fuck Sisyphus for doing all the grunt work and whining and being a metaphor about the poignancy of misery and hard work, that's why your last name's fuss and your first name's sissy. Grow some stones, errand boy. Go get me a drink you weak-willed doormat. Take your beautification of suffering and shove it up your candy ass, jabroni. If you smell what The Rock is cooking.