I freed Sisyphus from the rock
You ever meet a guy who loves his job?
I freed Sisyphus from the rock. He told me:
On the first day of his punishment, he thought the rock would not roll down. A matter of skill -- if he could roll it up right, the rock would stay rolled. He just had to figure out the right angle, the right divot in the burning ground, and the rock would not roll down.
On the second day, he thought the rock would not roll down.
On the third day, he thought the rock would not roll down.
On the thirtieth day, the thought occurred that the rock rolling down was a law of physics. Sisyphus sat at the base of the hill and wept. But the rock sat there beside him, and he thought, what if, what if there’s just one way to crack it. And he tried again to roll it so it would never roll again.
The crunch of stone on stone, day in and endless day in, became a song, in it all the arrogant words he’d ever spoken. His footsteps became a song. The pain became a song.
About a year in, he grew so tired that he decided never to touch the rock again. He sat at the base of the hill and wept. The rock sat there beside him. The thought occurred that the rock rolling down was a law of physics, and so Sisyphus could do nothing to prevent it. The thought occurred that perhaps the rock would roll down without him ever rolling it up. Pain roiled in his stomach so thick and sick that he roused from the ground and rolled the rock anew with the rage of a jealous lover.
A joke is funny, then not funny, then funny again as the teller prolongs it past the point of absurdity. About a decade in, Sisyphus thought the rock would not roll down, and every time it did, he laughed.
About fifty years in, Sisyphus tried to forget his life. About a century in, he remembered it again. He thought back through every detail, revised and repeated, memorized it all anew. With every step he cheated death, cheated death, and died, and he reincarnated every time the rock rolled down. More than memory, he told it as a story, spent days choosing every word, and after each choice, started again at the beginning to tell it all to himself again. He imagined the words in the rolling rock and the thud of his footsteps. It took many years to perfect the tale, and when it was done, he repeated it, sometimes whispered, sometimes shouted, trying to strike the note that the gods would hear, the exact inflection on the exact word that would make it all into sense.
About two centuries in, Sisyphus could no longer imagine any words in the story he told, in the song of the crunching rock, the incessant footsteps, or the euphoric, eternal ache of his muscles. These became the only tale he knew.
(So he told me none of this aloud, but the footprints on the hill wrote it out like water writes a canyon.)
About five centuries in, nothing existed in all creation besides Sisyphus, the rock, and the fall.
About a thousand years in, Sisyphus forgot his life. About two thousand years in, he remembered again. Less than memory, a dream, a thesis, a scripture. The story was all that had ever been of the world beyond this place.
So all creation existed within Sisyphus, the rock, and the fall. If the rock ceased to roll, then gravity ceased itself. The dust of everything would drift apart in silent, forgetful plumes. About three thousand years in, he had convinced himself that the rock was the engine of the universe.
And by the time I came to him his hands were so calloused they seemed to be the rock, and the rock so rolling-smoothed it seemed to be his skin, and gravity so inevitable it seemed to be his own heartbeat; and perhaps there was no difference between Sisyphus, the rock, and the fall.
I freed Sisyphus from the rock and he would not leave his post.