The sun rises every morning, but on particularly dreary gloomy days, I look up into the sky and I feel cheated, betrayed by the lack of everything that the sun is supposed to be.

The sun is supposed to be gracious, offering her rays to the plants and to the trees so that they might grow lavishly and verdantly. The sun is supposed to illumine the day so that crimson may redden and white may be purified. The sun is supposed to make the daytime a time of celebration and activity and life.

When she hovels in her cave of stratocumulus clouds and hides from her daily tasks, I resent her very existence and beg the night to quicken its arrival.

How dare the sun promise and not deliver? How dare the sun avoid me while she piddles the day away tinkering with raindrops and lightening storms? How dare the sun abandon me?

A grimace is chiseled in my face at the impertinence of the sun, but beyond the stone of exterior disapproval in dark corners of my internal being, I am disappointed and dismayed at the severe fastidiousness of my faith. And I wait for a new dawn. This dawn will be the sign of the umpteenth chance.


This post was written alongside the good people of the Creative Collective on the topic, "Sisyphus." Read their work here.