Our Love Story is Over, But This Song Still Haunts Me

I hear the lyrics more clearly now

Picture a winding road through a city.

You pass landmarks and tall city buildings on that road, though the buildings are all dark and deserted. Not another car is in sight.

You’re riding down that road during the beginning of a global pandemic, after a citywide lockdown has forced all life inside.

Every once in a while, you pass an ambulance parked outside an apartment building, its lights flashing silently. You see EMTs in hazmat suits.

You picture an entire city’s worth of people locked inside their homes that night.

But you are on the outside tonight. You’re driving to see your lover, while your kids are asleep at home.

On that ride along that winding city road, a single song plays on repeat. It’s a song with an addictive rhythm that nearly leaves you breathless with anticipation.

Sisyphus peered into the mist A stone’s throw from the precipice, paused Did he jump or did he fall as he gazed into the maw of the morning mist? Did he raise both fists and say,“To hell with this,” and just let the rock roll?

It’s a song named after Sisyphus, a mythical character who just kept pushing a boulder up the hill.

It’s a song about frustration and determination, of alternate endings. What if Sisyphus just gave up and let the rock fall after all? What if it came crashing down and destroyed everything in its wake?

It’s a song that became hauntingly relevant to my life on that eerie city road during the pandemic.

But at the time, I barely heard the words.

The rhythm was enough to lure me in. I began associating the swells in the song with certain curves in the road on my familiar path.

I listened to this song by Andrew Bird over and over again during those months. It became my anthem.

When I left my house on those strange nights, I pressed play and kept it on repeat until I arrived at his apartment 5 miles later.

The song meant freedom.

It became lust, love, and a gravitational pull toward this person who became my escape not just from a crumbling marriage but also from the fear of illness and all of the unknowns of the pandemic.

This wasn’t a secret affair. My husband knew about him, and we arranged the schedule in advance.

But I fell in love with this man during an attempt at an open marriage, and the confusing mix of emotions made me feel like I was 15 again.

So many things changed for me during those months, as they did for everyone around the world. I stopped going to work, and my children stopped school. My world became miniature.

But I also fell in love, and my body felt more alive. Music felt more powerful. The anticipation of those nights with my lover felt almost as exciting as the actual time we spent together.

I grew addicted to that anticipation, and to those car rides. So much so that I fantasized about taking that giant boulder and heaving it at the life I’d built so carefully.

I wanted this billowing emotion to last forever. I was willing to say “to hell with this” and let the rock become a wrecking ball.

So take my hand, we’ll do more than stand Take my hand, we’ll claim this land Take my hand, and we’ll let the rock roll

But the dopamine high of my escape route couldn’t last. These weren’t sustainable feelings.

They never really are, even when you fall in love in more normal conditions. Even when you aren’t already being married with two kids. Even when you fall in love without the backdrop of a global pandemic or a citywide lockdown.

The high of early love has to come back down to settle eventually.

But sometimes it’s time alone that helps that settling process along naturally, and sometimes you have to cut it short while you’re still high.

My drives with Sisyphus only lasted a few months, until they stopped abruptly and my visits to see my lover ended.

My husband and I decided to give our marriage another chance, and I went through a painful breakup I had to endure in silence, alone.

I let the rock roll after all. It came crashing down and destroyed the fantasy life I’d created in my head.

Sisyphus still takes my breath away.

When I play it now, nearly three years later, I’m instantly transported to those car rides down empty roads.

And now, more than ever, I hear the lyrics clearly.

Let it roll, let it crash down low There’s a house down there but I lost it long ago Let it roll, let it crash down low See my house down there but I lost it long ago

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