Am I...

...Icarus? The notion of risking a flight on wings of feathers and wax to reach the sun has always fascinated me. I've always known, deep in my heart, that I'd make that flight one day.

Or am I Sisyphus, condemned for eternity to roll a boulder up a hill and have it roll back back down before I could get it to the summit? Am I, as the myth has him, so knavish that I deserve such a fate?

I see some of both in myself.

I've taken flight to reach the sun, and I can feel my wings melting away from the heat.

And I have pushed that boulder so near the summit that I could almost see over the peak. But it rolls back on me, pushing me inexorably downward to the valley from which I came.

As myths, the stories of Icarus and Sisyphus are tragic, yet an element of heroism somehow comes through. Viewed in the context of real life, they seem examples of stupidity, more sad than inspirational.

Yes, I may have tried to fly on inadequate wings, and I may have tried my best to push that big rock up the mountain.

But a hero, I assure you, I am not.