Why Be Sisyphus?

There are certain mornings when you don’t need to actively reflect upon anything. All you need is a cue, a trigger, a nudge, a few couplets of Urdu poetry to launch into a tirade against oneself. And to step down from one plane of consciousness and into the rabbit hole of nostalgia. A wild montage of images, sounds and smells takes over your mind as you lie perfectly still on the bed that you slept in the night before. Your body remains still but your mind is shuddering, pulsating, rocking to the sounds and beats of the times flown by.

What happened to the dreams which you dreamt about during your wakeful hours. To those things which you wanted over everything else. For whom you left everything and everyone by the wayside. How did you land up here where you didn’t intend to? Is this all a chance or some misdirected motivation towards the comforts you secretly crave but openly despise?

What is the idea of work? Is it what is done for purpose and passion or a mundane activity undertaken to pay the bills. Are those two separate ideas which need to be delineated as intricately as the Radcliffe line divided the subcontinent. What are these imaginary boundaries which separate your worlds? Nothing is one and one is all. Is there no room for anything between the zero and the one. If not then where do you go from here? What do you really seek? 

There are explanations aplenty and of course you are creative with a good imagination and an above average vocabulary. You can concoct logical arguments to sell it to others. But what about the lies which you tell yourself? How do you face your fears and your desires, hidden deep down, concealed under the garb of dharma - your duty as a member of the society, as a son, as a brother, as a friend, as an employee.

Change brings variety, not comfort. Change disrupts all that there was and will be but that’s where the magic lies, they say. Are these all lies? How would you know? You never stayed long enough to find out. You abhor comfort, you never value the familiarity of routine. You always escape it. By running away from it. By breaking ties and never moving on. By never giving the new a chance. By being stuck in the whirlpool of nostalgia and reflections of choices. 

Is this all part of the grand plan of self loathing that has grown over the years. Is it a trauma response? Of course it is. If it wasn't, why wouldn’t your choices reflect that. Why deliberately choose a hard path instead? Why change tracks? Why not stay a while and enjoy the peace and quiet, the familiar smell of coffee and the sweet perfume? The sound of laughter and the echoes of delight. Why run away? Why not be kind to yourself. Why not feel worthy of some of the good things that come your way now and again. 

There are times when the skies look grey and there is no sunshine. But you don’t want the sunshine. You are happy being miserable, writing existential pieces and drowning yourself in existential poetry and philosophy. Sartre and Camus are your friends. There is a craving for suffering, the desire is to suffer, the desire is to be punished. Why punish yourself? Why be Sisyphus? 

Can Sisyphus truly be ever happy, Dear Camus?