A bit of a placeholder. But it fits.

Night has fallen, in this city of ours.

Not with a vengeance, but with a resolute sense of peace.
The people that I know have drawn themselves in from the glittering fields of colored lights, away from the bustling hustle of their daily toils, searching for a time where quiet is all they might know, hoping for closed eyes and cool air brushing gently across their skin like the hand of a special someone. Moving towards a place where they might lay their heads and prepare for the day to find itself again. Out there, they rest.

In here, I work.

I work on truly, truly, truly ridiculous things.
And I enjoy it. I enjoy it a lot, to a point.

But then again -- it’s troubling to another point. Because here I be, busy working on truly, truly, truly ridiculous things. So much so…that I lose the time to find fresh thoughts.

So here’s something for you. It’s not altogether fresh, it’s not altogether wonderful. It’s actually an addendum -- A bit of something that previously closed something else.
But hey. Something is something. Right?
Right you are!


Gerronwithit:

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It's an odd thing, this place right now. Still a hotbox, the air still thick with the scent of sweat turned sour with dread, and the rehabilitating guffaws of people taking off early with their conscience clear. It's too late for me. Still here, still waiting. Sisyphus is the World-engine -- and these are the rocks we push uphill.

Knowing all the while.
We talked about that, the lads and I. While we went about our busyness, a cohort had mentioned the frequency by which one of the day-fellows mentions my apparent fascination with Albert Camus. Now, seeing as I don't spend much, if any, time at all discussing that particular Algerian-French thinker in these emails (unless I'm poking fun at that particular day-fellow, but of course) this kind of rubbed me the wrong way. So I decided to throw caution to the wind, and think about this for a moment, think of something to say. So here you go: Sisyphus is the World-engine.

And by that, our lives our fueled.
Way of the World. Right?

Some background, then.
Sisyphus was a figure from Greek mythology who, after attempting to escape the Hades by way of deceiving Persephone (Queen of the Underworld), was dragged back to the pit and set up with the eternal punishment of pushing a rock up a hill. After which it would fall back down. So he would push it back up. And it would fall. So again, up. And then down. And up. And down. Up. Down. Up Down. UpDown. UPDOWN. updown. Updownupdownupdownupdown…and yeah. Et cetera, Eternity, Ad naseum. And so on.

This was hell, this was purgatory, this was his punishment.
Et cetera, Eternity, Ad naseum. And so on.

So.
There's this myth. And in about 1942, the Algerian-Frenchman (remember him?) published an extended essay which essentially came around to this singular point: That the lot of Sisyphus is only a torment if he perceives it as such.

There is a man. He has a rock. He pushes it uphill. And then he pushes it again.
So if this man were to look at this massive stone, and then down at the rough-hewn crags of his fingers, he might be able to simply and solemnly nod his head. To stand up as a man, and declare: "I am a pusher of rocks."

To accept his life.

And the walls came tumbling down.
Because if one takes their life in this manner -- still, without declaring their hopes and ambitions forfeit, without laying waste to their dreams -- they may see the day for what it is: another day. Via this acceptance, the absurd comes to light, and by way of that, all is well. So.

So.

So.
Look at the world. Look how it's built, upon a foundation of the push and pull between the forces of limitless Chaos & calculated Choice. And look at the people. The people who go out there, every single day, and do the things which keep us alive. At the people who pull the levers, who till the fields, who laugh away the day. Dirty hands flushed clean with mirth on summer evenings. Life being lived. Work being done. World turning over, time after time, day after day after day after day. The people of the world: "We are pushers of rocks." Even if they don't realize, even if they don't really say it aloud. And it is they, as well as we, who move the Earth.

We keep it going.
Something went down. It'll come back up again. The work will get done.
Sisyphus is the World-engine. And these are the rocks we push uphill.

Good times, my friends. Good times.

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I’ve things to do, noble interweb, and less and less time to do them.
I hope you don’t get cross.