“It is the Hour of Consciousness. The subtle moment of contemplation. That infinitesimal instant between reaching the zenith of the hill and finding the Rock back to the nadir. Again, the question of why one must love the things that are hard to love.
And in that very hour, despite the split second temptation of rejecting the absurd, one faces the path back to the foot of the mountain, accepting that tomorrow is the same.”
“There is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor,”
the gods that condemned Sisyphus believed with good reason.
And yet, my only sin is that of all the dreams this heart can possibly dream of, becoming a doctor makes me happiest.
At this point, it is not a question anymore of whether or not we love what we do. The Question has evolved into a query of why one must love the things that are hard to love. Why must one unceasingly push a Rock that is destined to roll down the hill again?
The tale of a medical student, told and retold endlessly, a narrative not unlike the tragedy of Sisyphus: an image of a body straining to get out of bed, eyes that are bloodshot, ears that have not heard the voices of loved ones for a long time, stomachs that are empty until time…
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