It doesn't matter. There it was.
The rock he was to carry up the hill.
Not just once. No. Not for him the satisfaction of a difficult job well done. The job would never be done.
The gods cursed the stone. The gods cursed the man.
Every time he got near the top of the mountain, the stone would fall off his shoulders and roll to the bottom. And so he would walk back down that mountain and pick it up. He would place it on his shoulders and carry it up the mountain again. Over and over.
A bit like housework.
My struggle is surface clutter.
my desk as I wrote this post this morning
Papers on the desk. Clothes on the floor. Dishes on the counter. Who-knows-what on the kitchen table. There is just so much of it in so many places.
As a self-avowed tchotchke minimalist, because tchotchke's drive me crazy, the surface clutter of daily life drives me particularly crazy.
And? Procrastination. I do not cheerfully hoist that rock up into my arms and trek up that mountain. No. I think about it. Stare at it. Work around it. I put it off for later--thus prolonging my agony. It makes no sense.
I find it tedious to the extreme and exhausting to do the same mindless tasks over and over again.
Sisyphus teaches: There is nothing but the doing. It is very Zen.
"One must imagine Sisyphus happy." Camus writes.
I can't imagine it. But happiness is a choice--and a valid one.
I will try. I must.
ETA: You can catch all the posts in the series here.