I read
Le Mythe de Sisyphe
yesterday
and stared at the wall
for 10 minutes
afterwards
the only thing
i could think
was how
my dreams felt so real
when I drank coffee
before sleep
how I spend my time
trying to find
what God could be
and how a writer’s diary
could destroy the world
Well I wrote in my diary later
that there was no point
in writing anymore
there was no rational reason
to create
But today I wrote again
that I may as well be
Sisyphus himself;
but instead of a rock
it was pen and paper
I scrawled at the bottom
in cursive
‘One must imagine Sisyphus happy’
and closed my notebook
for a short while