mind jelly

scattered on the old river
flakes of light
flutter in the breeze
like passing thoughts 

a seed
finds purchase 
in such barren ground

some crust 
as thin as an eggshell
divides waters

flutter in the belly
of the mind, why?

stone face

The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus is one of those books, my favorite kind, that has worked on my consciousness for years after reading it. When revisiting certain passages, it strikes me that I had been thinking along these lines to the point that now the words sing to me more than ever.

The gist of the book’s message is to live the most (not the best) by focusing attention on the experience of existence while acknowledging the absurdity of our condition (that we yearn for meaning in a random existence, so we “color the void” with our images).

“It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me.  A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end.  That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate.  He is stronger than his rock.” Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus (p. 121)

When I’m feeling the tragic fate of existence, it is this private victory that I keep in mind.