We live at the foot of Mount Sorrow, which is not softened by the weather, but rather grows only taller with each season. Its shadow grows longer, and stretches into places where once the children played.
There is a temple at the top, whose altar must be swept each day, its steps washed. No one wants the task, so we draw lots and leave it to chance, and whoever holds the short straw must make their way to the top. The rest do not watch them go. It will be their turn, some day.
It is a long and hard journey, that gets longer and harder as I grow older and the mountain grows higher. When I’m done, I’m always tempted to rest a while, or maybe to never go back down again. I’ll only have to come back again some day.
But then I sigh, and start the long journey home, because you can’t stay. You can’t. Even though I’ll have to come back again. Some day.
There is a temple at the top, whose altar must be swept each day, its steps washed. No one wants the task, so we draw lots and leave it to chance, and whoever holds the short straw must make their way to the top. The rest do not watch them go. It will be their turn, some day.
It is a long and hard journey, that gets longer and harder as I grow older and the mountain grows higher. When I’m done, I’m always tempted to rest a while, or maybe to never go back down again. I’ll only have to come back again some day.
But then I sigh, and start the long journey home, because you can’t stay. You can’t. Even though I’ll have to come back again. Some day.
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