Sisyphus would push the boulder up the hill only for it roll back down, an eternal futile toil. Yet with each attempt, the rock shed against the friction and movement, eroding little by little. Until one day, Sisyphus sat atop the hill with but a pebble in his pocket. A master of his craft.
There's truly a kind of serenity in experiencing the morning light hours without being distracted by obligation or media. The glowing horizon casting light around the edges of leaves, the dewy grass and the misty air, birds chattering as the day awakens. So nice to sit with, and have tea.