lvalentine
L. Valentine 🐇
i am nothing in my soul if not obsessive
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On Sisyphus and that damned rock
If Sisyphus could read what Camus said about him, I imagine he would laugh.
But Sisyphus was a cruel King, so laughing would not suffice. No, the King would tell Camus to fuck off, to stop trying to find a moral in his excruciating punishment.
His purpose is to forever push a rock up the hill - and some French cigarette smoking philosopher comes along and tries to tell him he's doing it with a smile?
Maybe this is why people hate philosophers. Because they like to make everything pretentious.
Maybe Sisyphus should be left alone. I hear he's doing quite well, actually, without the weight of us making theories of his existence.
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What we owe to ourselves
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be an author. When that realization struck me, the most I had ever done was write a terribly silly poem about soup, that my grandfather still keeps tucked in his desk drawer to this day.
I do not know quite know when I stopped writing. Perhaps it was nothing but a nasty side effect of growing up, leaving girlhood. But I do know things became a lot sadder when I left my thoughts in my brain instead of allowing them to spill over.
Studies have found that a few minutes of journalling a day can have similar benefits to therapy. Perhaps journalling is what we owe to ourselves. Perhaps this blog is just what eight year old Lia needs.
Perhaps this is the first step towards healing, towards identity.
I am so in love with the world. I am so grateful to be alive. And I am pleased to finally give my ramblings and musings a safe space to nest, on this corner of the internet.
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