Sisyphus and Myself

They’ve guided me for most of my life. I’ve always known how they feel about my shortcomings. At times, I feel completely lost in this business of living. What decisions are we supposed to make, the ones that shape the rest of our lives? I find myself wondering—alone in the night.

I wish there had been a blueprint. It would have made things easier.

Advice comes my way constantly—about my current state, my future—but it often feels more like a confession than a suggestion. Aren’t we all truly unique? I’ve been a traveler, guided by the day, by the necessity of the moment. The only place I get to wander—trackless, aimless—is here, on the page. Writing opens a door to a land that is mine alone.

I fantasize about stories—most of them go unwritten. Daydreaming has always been one of my favorite hobbies. Sometimes, though, it turns into stress. I feel a sudden passion to write, to create, but that energy often has to be diverted to something else—something already committed to. It wreaks havoc on me.

My attempts to break free sometimes feel futile. I’ve been doing what Sisyphus did—pushing a rock up the hill over and over again. But what should I do—not Sisyphus—to find contentment in that?

These questions keep me up at night.

And yet, I’m grateful. Grateful that I get to write for you every now and then. Maybe you hear what I’m trying to say, maybe you don’t—but the chance to say it still matters.

What’s hard, almost impossible, is letting others from my little world know: this is what I want to do. I’ve been trying. But other obligations always come up.

When asked the rhetorical question—What would you do if money weren’t an issue?—my answer is always the same: I would create works of art.

But money is an issue. And it seems like it always will be.