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I am a failure. From all the accolades—the trophies, the medals, the grades—there is a flaw deep within. Most say to embrace these, to give way to them and not fight them, but all that does is detract from the damage that's been done. The wars that've been fought in the trenches of my mind and the fields of my soul just stop?

They cut deep—words meant to encourage, and invigor, and embolden, and strengthen—feel like the lingering scars on my arms and legs: hollow. Time does not make these fade. They only seek to relieve the burden of the sayer and not the listener. They can come from a genuine place, or mean well, or be from the heart, but it's the same.

Why can't I go back? Why can't I reverse? I chose wrong and there's no way to correct it?

I push up that hill the boulder that holds all that was thrust upon me. This is not divine punishment. It's the stubborn idea that this was the correct choice, one that would lead me to a better future where I could finally eat the fruit and drink the water. Do I blame the one that gave me the seeds, or do I blame myself for swallowing them?

These burdens were never mine—weren't supposed to be—but now I face my own consequences for opening the bag. This rotting ship I sail will kill me one day. I wove this path with arrogance, and now I face the eight-legged horror of my mistake.