The world is heavy.
We carry the weight of our futures while struggling through the present.
I push my stone up a mountain for three days.
I wake up at the bottom of the hill and push again.
Maybe I break a sweat this time.
The paper I spent two weeks on floats by.
The air feels hotter.
The mountain looks taller from the bottom this time.
An angry tear falls on my cheek.
I push again,
but I get a call from my mother.
I roll back down the mountain with my stone.
My knees are bleeding now, but I start again.
I pay the ticket. I study harder.
I drive back home.
Though I shake and my body is bruised I push my stone again.
A shooting nearby
A melted glacier
He called me a n—-
I push, and I fall, and I brush myself off, and I push.
It pains me to fall,
but I persist.
If I never push, I’ll never see the top,
and I can only imagine the beautiful view when I make it.
The blood stains and scars won’t matter when something wonderful stands before me.