Every day, every moment,
I face a choice.
Step up the hill
against the gradient,
Eastward, towards
activity, discipline,
doing the right thing.
This way lies achievement
I'm told.
Or relax,
Let fall the strive
and roll
gleefully, unfettered,
to the little ditch.
But here only frustration
I've seen.
So,
keep I upward.
Drawn.
Push I, by force,
myself.
But I, striving
tire.
And
so I waver.
Pause.
Does the hill level out?
Can I trust that the toil
will one day yield
at least a shallow slope
or greater muscle to overcome it?
Were I truly lazy,
I would have no internal motivation.
Nothing would push from inside
and in that ditch I would be
happy.
But in it I am not.
Not happy, that is,
but frequently there I find me,
entertained by an endless stream
of little amusements. But inside
my spirit darkens with self-hate.
So in a spirit of reluctant agreement
I make another pact
with the inner striver
and turn to face the hill.
And then some days I wonder
is this the wrong hill for me to climb?
Or would I better push
knowing that that rock hides
a treasure easily
worth the climb?
Perhaps the ditch merely reflects
my fear of the unknown.
Beyond the rock, over the ridge,
perhaps I fear I will not make it.
Save me, self-deception,
from facing it all.
Your ditch I know.
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