by anita pan

I can’t see over the hilltop.

It’s probably rimmed with sparse pickings, little trimmings of precious sky come and gone. Depending on when I get up, there might be soft, thin strokes of red and orange—or flat, wide strokes of light blue—or even thick, fat strokes of ivory. Past that, there might be cities and kingdoms, trees and forests, or vast expanses of nothing.

I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll see, but I can guess. I’ve been up there enough times. The grass is always damp and ticklish and their little dewdrops wet my undersides enough for refreshment, right before I descend. Invisible hands seize me, invisible feet kick me, and an invisible voice laughs as I’m pulled by a godly gravity. It hurts, really does. And for what? I can’t see over the hilltop.

Hey, don’t laugh.

You’re the one pushing me. I roll down, but every time, you’re the one sprinting after me. You can’t quit either, and don’t lie. I saw what happened when you gave up once.

Keep pushing, now. The first time you did it you almost died but today you’re a little stronger. I’ll tell you when your grip gets weak. Keep pushing. The sun is nice and warm.

You know, I admire you. While I’m sunbathing, you’re positively shrivelled! Roasted and burnt into dark brown bits, and for what? You can’t see over the hilltop either.

You’re like every other person I’ve seen, trying for a goal, a goal without a reward. You’re not free. We’re nearing the top now. Just a little longer. You’re getting faster and stronger.

We’re here! The world is our oyster. The air is fresh and cool and we can see little bits of light dance through the trees. And if you take one more step, we can see past the hilltop. One more step—you can do it.

There, yes. Lift your foot, and—

Oh, it’s happening. Nevermind. All the way back down. Don’t cry, friend, it’s useless. We know how this works. And you’re chasing after me. I see your face carved in anguish. I’m sorry. You’ll have to push me up again.

I didn’t see over the hilltop. We’ll try again. We’ve tried and tried and we’ll keep going because that’s how it was and how it is and how it will be. We can only work with what we’re given, won’t we, Sisyphus?

A Rock Tells You A Story

by anita pan