Sisyphus had a muse








This is how it feels after trying to sort the contents of a cloud, prepare for the 'today is the rest of your life' battle cry, begin the downward slide on a slippery slope towards an infinitude of what was and will never be again.

Your legacy, not determined by you. Your best good deeds, innominate. 

The part that's just making up for lost time accumulated into years, now spent waking to the fears and the absolutes that abide. How is it that three weeks ago it was easier to tend the farm and now the files have run amok. The title, the deed, the soil, the way we shape the land.

How life, extraordinarily wondrous, turns devastatingly indifferent when we imagine what is it I stood for? What ever did I get done? Finish. Feel as though I was able to do what my mind knew was possible.

What stands in the way ever but time itself?



The repetition 
For the cause 
Of life
Because we're here 

Only that