Day 4
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Dear Diary,
Did Sisyphus find it different every time he rolled the rock up the hill? Did he find all the rocks that penetrated his feet? All the plants that had thorns? All the pebbles that got crushed due to the boulder?
It is absurd, the routine. The punishment given to Sisyphus is indeed ironic. You cheated death to live on forever. Wish granted. But all you ought to do is to carry a boulder up the hill and be back again. Again. And again and again. Now you know why death is present.
Mine is no different.
I wake up when the handles of a clock are as far as possible. And the rooster cockerels. It annoys me, but I wake up. I will twist that imaginary rooster's head one day.
And I am at school when the handles of a clock make an upper-left quarter shape, the shape of a slice of pizza cut in four equal parts. I cannot eat a clock.
And when I am at school, that is when things are ugly. The miseries of life are just looking at you through the faces of your classmates. And it multiplies, no it increases exponentially.
As I walk through the corridor until I reach my locker, there will be nerds, bullies, girls, junky kids, losers etc.
I do not seem to get along with anyone. I am a repulsive and eccentric person, perhaps because I get in my sunglasses on a winter day. And a jacket on a sunny day. And I dance on a rainy day like I am summoning ancient gods to eat this earth. I do not know why I do that. It is impulsive.
Not to keep myself recognized. Perhaps because if we keep giving reasons to each and everything, it is boring, tiring. So I do them without a second thought.
It is the same impulsiveness that makes me skin the rabbits, cut the tails of rats, chop legs off the cats, remove the ears of stray dogs, separate the wings of a bird from its body.
These idiots would bury me alive if they knew of anything on my other side, making me suffer the same as those animals did. Fuckers.
And cursing, I get to my locker, finally. The voyage to my locker is the same as that of a merchant travelling in a desert. And my locker is an oasis. It seems to be near, but it is not. And in the desert, sand is what makes things awkward, and my peers are sand grains. They are insignificant, irregular, puny yet effective when together to create hostility.
I have to drink. I would have lost water through my sweat. Things cool down.
They heat up again when I step into class. The ugly faces welcome me again. I take the last bench on one of the corners.
And you see the face you do not want to see in your first class. It is Mr Bob. I do not know his real name.
He is boring. Therefore you delete him from your brain. And when to mention him, you label him something. Classic.
But like a transparent glass, I can see through him. He is a stereotypical loser. He rejects it through the fake smile he gives. He prepares for a joke that he has to make. His paycheck does not seem to fulfil his needs. His outfits have worn out. He cries, sometimes in his staff room. He knows that life is disgusting. Yet pride that society wants one to have keeps him going.
And there is Ms. Red, Mr. Angel, Mr. Crabpop, Ms. Spongelol Squarepants. Their names vary each time I describe them.
Though their actions are different from Bob, they are not all fine. They all seem to worry always about something. Sometimes to things that do not matter. They are worried about the invisible. The invisible that life makes one face. It is not clear what it is. But they are not okay with it.
And you see it in everyone. And you feel it inside you, hiding somewhere.
Then I touch on the absurdity of things. In the long run, I see how I am carrying along with me something, a bag, myself, files, blood, mind, pen, knife, the boredom of tomorrow.
Yet, I, like Sisyphus carry them everywhere, every day. Until the same boulder roll over me.
The rocks penetrating my feet, plants of thorn do not matter. They do not make anything different.
I am just a Sisyphus with a knife.
Good night.
Dated: 08/ 03/ 2013119Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpVfUAJVoVi
