Sisyphean

3 min read

It started with an idea or rather an intention to create something but certain things never come to light. Or rather in our attempt to keep it in the shadows, it would still be inadvertently found. I guess if and when this does go out, that would probably be an ironic statement to start off with.

What has transpired since the last time I was here? A lot has and at the same time, nothing much has. Time seemed to have stopped for a while, it is feeling that I do not enjoy. The quality vs. quantity argument, in that sense a lot has happened, I suppose.

There has been some changes, which brings us here to a state of introspection. I must say the language is not as well thought out, and poetic as they were before. I really have fallen off it for a while now, I just have to write more of these.

What inspired me to write again? I suppose this draft has been nagging at me, a little thorn in my side. And each time I would start something I would just as swiftly wipe the slate clean. Starting over, again and again. Each time I would write something with minor differences, iterations upon iterations.

Would this time make a difference? I think not, it would however be a mish-mash of past ideas and past dreams. So even in a state of apparent completion it would just be an aggregation of incomplete attempts. Perhaps it would survive deletion this time. Or just remain in limbo.

Unfortunately, much of the time has been in limbo, in a way you can reference the allegory of the cave, just as you are watching life pass you by. Every attempt to gain control is akin to grasping at your reflection on the water’s surface - only momentarily interrupting with refractions, a rather rebellious attempt at gaining control only to resume that state normalcy that you find oh so abhorrent, yet again.

So then why continue at this seemingly frenetic pace or at times, time itself seems to stand still, days melding into days and you wonder about the progress you have sought out for yourself. Was the goal ever a reality? Or was the pursuit all is there to it?

Perhaps that is all there is to it. Too big the scale of thought, or too minute makes the entirety of it pointless to ponder or discuss. The apparent lack of basis in reality creates a vacuum of self-indulgence. Why is that so bad, you might ask? Everyone has a different reality, or rather differing perceptions of which they construe as a reality that they are living.

I guess I would draw upon the concept of archetypes as opposed to stereotypes, and that of shared narratives. What we perceive as reality becomes wholly irrelevant when we take into consideration the most objective aspects of the act of living, that is, the interaction with the environment.

Taking that makes things a little bit clearer. As to why, I or probably any person who tries to exert control would end up in a relatively similar spot they were in before. The combination of time, place and probably a myriad other reasons intertwining creates the causality. But that in itself is ironic, and often those aspects of the environment are caused by other than itself, and you can go further back still.

Maybe we should reconcile with the fact that we are all living in our own personal hamster wheels, in perpetuum.