Early morning

Two blocks wide, footing rough, the path curves up and away from you.

To your right, the wall is soft, bluish, cold. The wall is flesh. The slightest pressure bruises, the surface more delicate than expected. If you push further (of course you do, just to see), it breaks and divots and weeps a mix of runny gray and viscous black. The wall feels, the wall emits a low moan of pain every time. The path is neither wide nor smooth enough for you to never stumble and to stumble left is impossible.

To the left is nothing. Supposedly emptiness but don’t touch the wall. You have goosebumps rippling along your left arm with the fear you might touch it. You see below – is it a brain? A city? A storm from above? Dull flashes of blue in the dark.

I don’t know what to tell you about the wheel you’re on, the wall you hurt as you walk, the city below you. A hill or a wheel or an impossible climb – did Sisyphus have a moment of triumph that first day or did he learn over time?

Has hope abandoned hell or is it master there?


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