camus asked the world
to imagine
sisyphus happy
but happiness
isn’t a part
of the comfort
inherent in
repetitive action
i prefer to
imagine sisyphus
contented in his
daily struggle
the knowledge
that everything we do
is eventually
another incomprehensible
habitual act
retracing steps
well worn scars
across our hearts
running fingers
over cardiac nerves
exciting palpatations
repeating
self-destructive
idiocies because
man never learns
an oroboros of
self defeat
seeking its own tail
to pacify
the urges.
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
I was thinking about this recently (and after re-reading the book). And what I thought was this: imagine Sisyphus sick to death of that motherfucking rock crushing him overy time to rolled back down. Imagine the slow decay of hope (which I guess is the point of the punishment in the original myth). Imagine Sisyphus unable to find meaning in that hollow existence
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absolutely. we have to imagine him happy to justify our own miseries.
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and in that I think Camus (and others) were wrong. Don’t mistake what I’m saying here, I strongly believe in finding meaning, and Satre’s oft-noted “existence precedes essence”, but I leaven that with the ideas of Dostoevsky and other more fatalistic thinkers
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