I had a conversation with Sisyphus again. I stood at the foot of the hill, a bit of a distance to it.
As he rolled the boulder up, as I was climbing the hill beside him; he told me, he too gets tired, but never mentions it. He dares not to. It does not do anything, nor does it change something.
He too hopes that it would end—the rolling of the boulder—but as he is cursed to go on, he proceeds to do so. Hope is evil, he claimed. I nodded in agreement.
I get tired too, but never mention it. I don't have the luxury to do so, forced to go on like you. Hope is evil; it damned us all.
But it is not eternal for you, so live if you must. Carry the burden if you must, feel all of it if you must—it is what makes us humane. It is what separates us from the gods.
So he rolled the boulder, to and fro, as a ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, an assurance to proceed, to continue, to go on even if our muscles ache and our joints sometimes swell—for it is but a muscle and a joint—aching, swelling, hurting and thus healing.
