Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus - "Absurd Walls"
The thing about inspiration, for me, is that, above being fleeting and completely aloof, it's also overwhelming. I've had the pleasure of the revitalization of my writing bug as of late. What has been latent for years has surged back and I'm happy to say that I've been taking advantage of it. I've been making progress on a piece that I've been kicking around for most of my adult life. In fact, among the many public networking sites that have come and gone, you may have seen bits and pieces from me of a work called 'The End Of All Comfort.' For the most part it's been nonsensical ramblings and unrelated texts. I now have a pretty clear vision for it and hope to have, at least, a novella out of it.
The downside, to this sudden spark, is that I've also imagined another piece that I'm pretty excited about and have nearly fully mapped out. I've begun getting as much of it down as I can. The problem I'm having is one of focus. There's no lack of content. On the one hand I have a semi-autobiographical piece that's been in my head for a decade, and on the other I have a fresh new piece with characters that I'm really excited about. Both of these books deal with the absurd and both have references to Camus' 'The Myth Of Sisyphus' (more so the latter) which I'm now in the process of rereading.
I'm very excited about what's taking place and I hope to have something tangible come from it. Being diligent and staying on task is something I know will have to be forced at times. I know that of myself, once inspiration is gone, I have no will to touch anything that I was once so very excited about.
What is it that drives a man, self confident and commanding, who at once finds himself compelled to retreat? To retire to his bed and spend the foreseeable future swaddled within those blankets amid take-out boxes and remote controls? Only at the next moment to be driven out by the ever-gnawing fact that his days are indeed numbered and that he is hurdling towards his demise; or even more daunting, the end of his eligibility to take part in the carnal aspects of the human comedy: a fate much worse than death. And one that ultimately leads a man to welcome Death's outreaching hand.
And now with this woman. This girl. I do love her. Everyone loves her. But what business do I have with her? She is not for me. She is for a much simpler man. Not one that could appreciate her more because, no, I don't think the man I'm referring to is capable of such a thing. But she needs a man more carefree than I. One not so weighed down by invisible circumstance, constantly throwing around words like Farce and Futility when referring to existence. I will bring this woman down. That smile. That cheery disposition that attracts me, that attracts all to her, would be worn down by me. By the books I'd have her read. The films I'd take her to see. Even the morning discussion over breakfast as I'm reading my paper and disheartened by it all. So shall she be. I would jade her. This gem's luster would fade under my care and I could not forgive myself for that.
- The End Of All Comfort