The Myth Of Sisyphus

Thy truth is out of time, same as when thou knocks on that door and no one answers, carrying the rock alone as Sisyphus;

I’ve accepted my truth, as I can’t carry anything else, nor religion nor love, or the things that men happen to know by experience.

I know for sure I’m going to die one day, and it’s not far, and neither is my own decadent consumption of mind and body;

What is the answer? Shall it be kicking off the shoes and lying on bed, and kissing that girl, and walking the city as the night shadows my eternal dissatisfaction, for thy lord leaves me to think, and to think alone, as one mass or atom that stands beneath the surface, where hidden things are;

I must complete my journey and be happy with absurdity, as it is some form of abstraction, never aware, never certain, always diminishing.

God is there, and yet I don’t accept it. I want to live as a man, not in eternity, not thy paradise, and not in any person’s dream;

I’ll be free as my angst overcomes my will to live, and suicide becomes an option, as every sensible man has considered it.

Should I live in the past with the nostalgia for the unity of reality and desire, or hope?

There is no hope, nor for women or children that fight a men’s war, while we live conscientious of our own mortality, as we live fully for our lives, extending it as much as we can.

I don’t believe existence can be compassionate, nor it will be, but though as the waters of the ocean that suffocate nature with its density and amount, I must carry it in my shoulders, as it slips through my fingers.