A year ago, I wrote a poem about Sisyphus, inspired by the Greek myth of the gods condemning Sisyphus to ceaselessly try to roll a heavy rock to the top of the mountain, only to fall back down again.
Today, I still find myself breaking my back rolling stones, and probably will for the rest of my life. But ultimately: “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus is happy.”
- - -
Sisyphus
weekdays we're packed into spaceships,
travelling near the speed of light.
within the fast-paced nine to five,
time grows slothful and tortoiselike.
thank god it's friday.
living for the elusive weekends;
the public holidays, annual leaves,
vacations and staycations.
feeling alive
less than half of the time.
condemned for our eternity,
to break backs rolling stones,
against cruel fate,
and a downward acceleration of 9.8;
only to fall harder,
than the apple he never ate.
the universe throws laughter,
rivers stream with lemon-water.
someone once told me,
"to survive you must develop
a masochistic tendency"
towards what, i did not know.
perhaps, lemons and apples.
suicide?
there's no time, no compassion,
or legislation for that.
wishing to sleep, forever,
in cryonics' tombs,
for a warmer future,
in which darkness doesn't loom.
nonetheless, amidst this absurdity,
one must believe,
Sisyphus is happy.
myself, i rest in peace;
knowing i'll soon
return to death's tomb.
for someday, i'll stop thinking,
and therefore, like them,
i will cease to be.
