On this day in 1913, Albert Camus was born. Ever before and ever since, people have been waking up only to go to sleep and living only to die. In the process, they’ve floated in a vast void of possible creation and inevitable destruction, their boulders immeasurably heavy and enormously light. But hey, “the struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” Yes, we must indeed imagine happiness in the unrelenting absurdity, the infinite jest that is existence.
Somewhere nearby a man enjoys an unforgettable meal. Hours later, his bowels decide that the nostalgia of memory is a farce. But they generously leave the man his sentiments and go about their business. Years later, his bowels join his memories and are lost forever in the infinity of eternity. The man suffers nothing.