Thrasher's Call

Must I imagine Sisyphus satisfied to imagine myself content? Is my existence so rote and so calcified that my vision of life has so hollowed and petrified to a husk, and I, beaten, relent to empty mental assent?

What flaming beacon, if lit on this mountainside, could kindle my soul’s dimming flame? Where can I re-warm my heart by a fireside, thawing the ice of despair, to a passiontide; How can such hope be reclaimed, enlivening mortified frame?

Or is my roll-bouldering view of ontology, missing a critical piece? What if the facts lie in part in mythology, woven in tapestry-thread with theology, unbinding the hope that, released, rekindles our hearts, and brings peace?