Heaving, my lungs made of fire, have surely already burst. Numb, but a paradoxical numbness in which the ache is far worse than if engorged in embers, my arms can no longer push. Quaking uncontrollably, ready to break free and walk away from the rest of my excruciating body in order to die in peace, my legs are past worthless. And my back! Oh, my back! I would rather have had Satan himself cut through it with a dull butter knife for the last 24 hours than have it struggle to not collapse in on itself any longer. If it did, though, then at least I would have the relief of death. Relief. I need relief. And at this thought, I watch as the boulder, which was seconds ago mere centimeters from the edge of the precipice, shoots back down the exact route in which I just pushed it up. I look down into the darkness, the darkness of the other side of the cliff. I could jump. What would happen if I just jumped? But I don’t. I never have. Because I feel a pull towards the boulder — the wretched boulder that I have spent an unfathomable amount of time caressing, unthinkingly memorizing every miniscule crack, divot, and shadow, continuously pushing literally a hair width farther up the cliff, only to tragically watch as it returns to its original spot at the bottom — and for reasons I truly cannot explain I know that it can never leave me. Or, perhaps, I can never leave it. I can never rest until it sits atop the cliff. My name is Sisyphus. This is my personal Hell.