Sisyphus and the Cyclades
Joy is not found in I did it but in I am doing.
The Sisyphus myth portrays the harsh and unique punishment of a Greek king who betrayed the Gods. Sisyphus’s fate was to perpetually push a boulder up a hill, only to see, as he reached the top, the rock roll back downwards in vain. The relatability of this torture explains its fame. The daily rhythm of life can often feel repetitive, mundane, and fruitless. We so often labor only to see little tangible gain.
Thankfully, in his essay ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’, French philosopher Albert Camus reconciles this discord between existence and futility.
"The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
It is the process that fulfills our purpose. It is not achievement but endeavor that scratches our itch. Refer no further than to the stereotype of the struggling sports champion, war hero, or retiree. Joy is found not in I did it but in I am doing.
Romanticizing Paint on the Ground
I yawn. The caffeine crash from the midnight espresso martini has hit me hard.
I check the time -04:57. Battery 4%. Time to find the driver.
Half daydreaming, half drunk I pace through the winding lopsided paths of the Mykononian Old Town. Turn the corner and I stop.
There’s a man on the ground. He’s wearing all white- not atypical of the island’s fashion but-
He’s repainting the lines between the pavement stones. Every stroke purifies the worn lines into a bright white glow. A season’s worth of steps washed away. Despite the mundanity of the task itself, this strikes me.
It’s an act of tradition.
It’s an act of storytelling.
It’s an act of branding.
It’s an act of pride.
But it’s also seemingly an act in futility.
It’s a Sisyphean labor- repetitive, dull, endless, cyclical. Ultimately though, we do not seek to end the task, but rather pursue different ends. Maintaining the beauty and magic of the island is an end in itself. We can imagine Sisyphus happy.
In closing- the cluster of islands which are famous for this white-washed architecture are called the Cyclades- Greek for cycle or circle. So how fitting, how poetic is it that they in turn require a constant cycle of painting to maintain their aesthetic?