I repeat, like Sisyphus, the same actions, thoughts, stories over and over. I feel doomed and thrilled to relive the same moments again and again. I dread the twinge of introspection that creeps in with the cold, but once it arrives I find its presence like an old sweater. A familiar space filled with comfort and possibilities. And when the chill recedes and I once again find the sweater hot and confining, the deep melancholy leaves my bones. I rejoice in exploring new places and being reborn anew. I’m filled with naiveté, excitement, and hope. But as summer drags on, I miss my quiet spaces, cold dark mornings, and the peace only being alone with your thoughts can bring.
There is always a fear that the darkness that lurks in the shadows of winter’s branches will consume me. That when spring comes, I won’t be able to pull myself out of the sweater and I will suffocate from its smothering nature. And every fall I worry that I won’t be able to find that cozy place within my soul that allows me to feel safe in taking risks. Without fail though, every year, its tendrils sneak up my thighs as the leaves turn red and gold and my breath makes beautiful silver puffs in the moonlight.
Like Sisyphus, eternally stuck in the pointless repetitive action, I find beauty and joy within the cyclical nature of experience. Camus, in The Myth of Sisyphus,[1] tells us that Sisyphus finds freedom in confronting his Absurdity. That it is during his long walk back down the hill that he realizes he has no master, no meaning to uphold, no narrative to craft.
Camus sees the Absurd in our clash with a world that provides little order and no meaning when humanity demands it. However, another philosopher, Nagel, argues that this contradiction is internal, that it is our awareness of ourselves, of our own arbitrary, idiosyncratic actions that is the Absurd.
My Absurdity is the clash between a hyperawareness of the construction of meaning, yet an undeniable belief that I’m stuck in a perpetual cycle of emotion, growth, knowledge, and self-destruction.
I can’t help but tell stories, construct meaning to my existence. I give simple mundane moments intense poignancy and resonance in my life. Each gesture and experience allows me to tie down my identity in a linear narrative.
Yet, I know this is all a lie: a construction as flimsy as a piece of translucent paper. I see this when the narratives change, when the clean neat lines prove complicated. This contradiction, this dissonance haunts me.
Most days I can confront this ghost, my Absurdity, and push my boulder up the hill, just like Sisyphus, and walk down calmly at peace with the mechanics. But once in a while I trip and the boulder runs me down. Or my tired legs give up and I roll down the hill like an exuberant child. And there are even some days where I just refuse to push at all.
[1] Camus, Albert, The Myth of Sisyphus, (Hamish Hamilton, 1955).