I'm riding that edge right now.
Sometimes it's bad, sometimes it's worse, and sometimes I get distracted long enough to forget, stop paying attention to ye olde brainbox.
It's when I'm like this I have a hard time being around people I know. All I want to do is curl up in my room and write, bleed it out. And when I can no longer stare at the monitor, my eyes aching, I want a man without language to exhaust me for the evening, so my mind and body will match and I can sleep. I don't want to have to say anything, I've drained my soul of words and I want him to understand that anything else that comes out of me will be the bases bits of gravel, worthless and forever caught in the cracks.
Two weeks of this, off and on. No excuses, no reasons. I go out in public and I feel like my edges are cracking. I'm in no danger of losing it, just slightly out of my head for now. I would go out on Friday and sweat it out of my system on the dance floor, but instead of being able to dance myself, I will be at a show, watching others dance.
It seems unfair.
Maybe I'll go out Thursday instead.
Maybe.
You captioned this posting, "Sisyphus," but what did he have to do with it?
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Did you ever read Camus' "Sisyphus," Poetry? He was a Greek, condemned by the gods to push his boulder up a mountain for all eternity. But Sisyphus never reaches the summit. His boulder escapes his grasp, always at the last moment, crashing down to the valley below.
Then something strange happens. After years of laboring over his rock, Sisyphus forgets about the sun and the earth. He changes. Becomes all muscle and sinew. Hard, like his rock.
When Sisyphus' mind becomes rock-like too, he rewrites the story of his own condemnation. Pushing that damn boulder is his eternal work. His own positive niche in the universe.
Then something strange happens.
Sisyphus feels happy.