Sisyphus in Pieces IV—Nothing
He couldn’t remember exactly when he‘d started pushing the rock; the days all blended together. It had been a while.
He’d tried everything at first—reliving every memory. Reciting poetry, multiplication tables, the names of the stars. Composing dramas and arguing philosophy with himself. Imagining new worlds where he ruled over empires.
But always the flat light lit the featureless rocks in stale air. Always the blank nights loomed. Nothing ever moved; nothing ever changed.
As the days wore on—the years, the decades—the memories began to fade. Sisyphus forgot details. Sensation and pleasure lost their strength. The arguments seemed ever more irrelevant. Imagination stagnated. Only the pitch black of the abyss had depth; only the rock and the knoll had substance. And him. And they would go on forever.
An anger filled him. How could the gods punish him like this? With this stupid slog of nothing?
In fury he set his shoulder to the rock and heaved. It rolled halfway to the abyss before it stopped. His hands tingled, roughened with the texture of something real. Heart pounding, sinews burning, lungs on fire—it was almost like being alive.
+++++
dust storms
at the old RV park
the screen always shines