“And I dream too much and I don’t write enough and I’m trying to find God everywhere”
In Greek mythology, there is a tale of Sisyphus, a man condemned by the gods to an eternity of futile labour. His punishment was to ceaselessly push a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down each time he neared the summit.
My entire life, I’ve felt like God—Gods? whatever higher power—has sentenced me to the same fate. An eternity of pursuit. Never really achieving mastery. Never reaching the top of the hill.
The irony of it all is that God is what I’m in pursuit of. His presence. His comfort. His voice. His solace. I yearn for his existence.
It always seemed so easy for everybody. So easy for them to hear him and see him and feel him. But never me. Hard as I tried it was never me. At every turn, God had stood me up. No matter how much I prayed or changed, or read my Bible. It was never me. It’s never been me. It will never be me.
I’m fated to push and push and push. Until the hill crumbles beneath my feet.
And even then, I’ll have to push out of the rubble and right onto a new hill.