Sunday night, somewhere around 9:47, you felt okay again for the first time in days.
And you were proud of that. You're always proud of that. Bouncing back is your thing. Other people burn out. You recharge.
The Greeks had a story about a man like you.
Prometheus, chained to a rock. Every day an eagle came and ate his liver. Every night the liver grew back.
Everyone remembers the eagle. The Greeks cared more about the liver. Because if it never grew back, the punishment ends in a day. The recovery is what makes it eternal. The eagle doesn't need him weak. The eagle needs him restored.
Your weekend is the night on the rock. Monday is the eagle. And the eagle is punctual.
So here's the question worth taking to bed tonight. Not what came back this weekend. What hasn't come back in years.
If you want to sit with the whole thing, I wrote it out in full and then built it a body. The page is alive. The clock starts at 9:47 and runs while you read. The light dims when the eagle passes. It counts your Mondays in the corner of the screen.
First of a series called The Gods You Already Worship. Old gods, dragged into your Tuesday, one at a time.
Josh