Sisyphus

From the outside, up there in the sunlight, on those rolling hills you call home, it is easy to come to the conclusion that I am not happy in this new life of mine-pushing a boulder up a gigantic hill, only to watch it roll down the other side.  I suppose, for the first two thousand years, that was the case.  I have learned to live with it.  Perhaps my greatest victory in this immortal existence of mine is that I never let the gods punish me properly.  Over the eons, I have learned how to be happy despite the crushing weight of a boulder pounding against my hands.  There is that beautiful moment, at the top of the hill, when I can see all of Tarterus.  Hellfire all around me.  Prometheus on his rock, vultures circling.  Atlas with a burden of his own.  I release the boulder, and instead of hoping that for this one time in two million iterations, it would stay put at the top of this terrible summit, I relish the first slow second of unbalance and acceleration as gravity takes hold and it starts to roll downhill.  I never rush the walk to retrieve it.  Never ever.  It is a lazy jaunt, with a sidelong look to reflect on sleeping Cerebrus.  There is always another push uphill, but then again, there is always another walk downhill also.