You stand in a valley at the base of a mountain, nothing but the clothes on your back, and a picturesque, heavy, stone boulder beside you.

You look at the boulder and desire to move it. You begin to push it and slowly, ever so slowly, it begins inching up the mountain. This work is tiring, but satisfying. You take brief pauses to check your progress and to renew your strength, and you get right back to pushing the boulder.

You push and work and strive so hard, and finally, though your energy is nearly spent, you find yourself just meters away from the crest of the mountain.

Your foot slips, you lose hold the boulder, and watch in dejection as it rolls faster and faster to the bottom of the mountain, hitting the side of the valley and cracking upon impact.

You close your eyes and breathe slowly, calming yourself before you can get upset.

You will simply try again.

You try again, but the boulder is imperfect. It’s new facets scrape and catch on the ground. You are tired from your previous efforts, but determination fills you as you make progress. It is difficult, yes, but you are making progress. You will reach the summit.

Finally, after many long days, weeks, months of pushing, you are again only a few meters away.

Your foot slips, but you manage to catch the boulder, though it has rolled back somewhat.

You grit your teeth and push it forward, but before you reach the top, the jagged edge of the boulder runs across your hand in the wrong way, cutting through the skin.

You hiss through your teeth and try to stay put, but when you go to push the boulder the sharp rock cuts into your wound, and you let go, instinctively drawing away from the source of pain.

The boulder tumbles down the mountain, coming to a stop in the bottom of the valley.

You rest. Bandage your hand. Try again.

You trip earlier on this time, an overturned root putting you flat on your face.

Try again.

Snow arrives, biting your hands, your face, and making the mountain a sheet of ice.

Try again, and again, and again.

The ice melts, but you find the mud difficult to trek through and barely make it halfway up.

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Try again.

Try again.

Try again.

You sit at the bottom of the valley, staring up at the mountain. You so wish to see the view.

You look at the boulder. Chipped, broken, cracked, caked with mud and covered with dried blood. Your shirt is in tatters, most of it wrapped around your hands and arms by now.

You hate the boulder.

The sight of it makes you angry and you scream into the sky, years of frustration coming out in a furious, broken cry.

You sit in the valley, staring at the boulder, wishing it would simply fly to the top of the mountain. Wishing you didn’t need to take the boulder with you, or that you didn’t care so much to reach the summit.

You stand behind the boulder and begin to shove it up the mountain.

You are so tired.

Your arms tremble with the effort, and your legs protest with every step.

You have failed so many times. Why would this one be different?

You stop, straining to hold the boulder in place.

It will be different. It must be.

You continue, old wounds threatening to open as the boulder presses into your hands.

You’ve only gotten worse. Last time you didn’t even pass Beaver Glade. You’re not making progress, you’re regressing.

You stop. Tears filling your vision. You’re right, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do better this time.

You take another painful step.

You hate the boulder. 

You take another step as thoughts swirl in your mind. You have been on this mountain for years, and you so desire to see the view at the top of it. 

You stop, sitting down so that the boulder cannot roll.

It is so much easier to rest than to fail. To listen to the same birds, to watch the same deer, to feel the same wind. You could stay here. 

But the boulder presses against your back, a constant reminder.

You get up. You hate the boulder. The thought of pushing its ungrateful frame up the mountain makes you want to sit back down and let the thing roll back into the valley.

But you want to see the summit.

You grit your teeth and push ahead.

I see you, from my mountain, where you push and strive. I can hear you scream every so often. I hear the crash as the boulder slips and falls back down. I see you trudge back down and pick it up, tearing off a bit of your shirt to wrap around a fresh cut.

I see you from my mountain, sitting against my boulder, scars on my hands and shirt cut to tatters.

I follow your progress, looking up and up until you are out of sight, tears glinting in my eyes.

I am so proud of you for your resolve. I envy the drive you have to keep pushing.

I look from my valley up at my mountain and laugh to myself, nudging my boulder with my foot.

It tips up for a moment before gravity claims hold of it again.

I look up at my mountain and dream of its summit. I look over at your mountain and see you straining and pushing to make any progress you can.

Perhaps I will try again. Perhaps I will fail again. Perhaps I will stay in my valley and watch until you reach your summit.

You begin to scream as you push up the mountain. You scream in pain and defiance and determination. I don’t know if it’s helping, but you continue, one foot in front of the other.

One foot in front of the other.

I nudge my boulder again, though the sight of it has long since repulsed me. I sigh, standing up and stretching.

Maybe I will try again. Maybe I will fail again. And maybe after that I will stop and be able to dream of the summit no more.

But just this one more time.

One more time, I’ll try again.

I put my shoulder against my boulder and take a step.

On your mountain I hear you scream again, but this time it is different and I can’t tell what it means.

Head down, one foot in front of the other.

Keep going.

One more time.

Try again.