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.
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.
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 womb.
for someday, i'll stop thinking,
and therefore, like them,
i will cease to be.
From The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus: "The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."