The Absurdity Of It All

We were somewhere on the edge of the void

when the drugs began to kick in.

Not the cheap stuff.

This was pure Absurdity straight to the neocortex,

the kind that burns the retina

and leaves you staring at the ceiling at 4 a.m.

wondering why the hell the rock

keeps rolling back down the fucking hill.

Camus had the map

but he drew it in blood

and drowned it with black coffee.

One serious question, he said: Is this whole carnival worth the price of admission?

Suicide is the ultimate walk-out,

the final middle finger to a universe

that never even learned your name.

But most of us don’t pull the trigger.

No surprise there.

We just keep showing up,

hungover,

muttering about tomorrow like it owes us money.

The Absurd isn’t a theory.

It’s the moment the elevator music stops

and you realize the building is on fire

and the exits are painted on.

You want meaning.

The world gives you static.

You scream for order.

It hands you a participation trophy and income tax.

That collision; that’s the high.

That’s the bad flash that never quite fades.

The philosophers and gurus tried to fix it with God

or Essence

or some other magic dust.

Kierkegaard took the leap.

Camus watched him fall and lit another cigarette.

Philosophical suicide, he called it,

trading your eyes for a pretty lie that makes you feel better.

No deal.

Give me the room with the screaming wallpaper and the busted clock.

So, what’s left?

Revolt.

Freedom.

Passion.

Not the soft kind they sell in self-help books.

The hard kind.

The kind that keeps the pedal down

even when the road ends in a cliff.

You don’t get out.

You just drive faster and faster

counting the white lines like they mean something

straight into the blazing amber sunset of reckoning!

And Sisyphus,

poor bastard,

eternal union man of the damned,

pushing that boulder up the same cursed hill forever.

The gods thought they’d broken him.

They forgot the one weapon he still had: the knowledge that it was all a joke.

Every time the rock rolls back he smiles.

Not because he’s hopeful.

Because the struggle itself is the only high left that doesn’t lie.

And the only way out is through.

***