sisyphus

The gray reach of the storm touches everything in sight. It makes rivers from rooftops, slickens the glide of every daring wing. It bends words and the things they have settled on, confusing the distinction between field and pond, road and gutter. It flays leaf and pavement, animal and machine alike. It is that torrent of life and ache, and it flows from livid sky to callow soul unfettered and free.

I often meet my limitations, they set upon me in contentions packs, proud and unrelenting. They drop in uninvited and unannounced, and lay in with their fists and futures. I watch the rain tower past in gushes and in gasps, dowsing the wreck of my work. The piled up planks and rails of the old fence I have dismantled, the tangles of vegetation I have cut and torn. The fresh lumber awaiting my attentions, unaware of my lack of skill and foresight. Rain falling down, as I so often do.

There is a tender longing that accompanies the rain. As it falls I can feel all of these loves and losses more fully, the cleansing ablution that reveals the surface of the wound. Sore and bone-soaked, I felt completely beaten by this demolition I have engaged. Without any solace, without any light inside to comfort or to guide me, I continued on my course. The rain falls, pelting skin and cloth, and I am tired and more than a little lost. The storm is indifferent, and it is beautiful. My incompetence immeasurable beneath the flow of all this glory. The loveliest of sorrows, knowing that this world will continue to get by without me.