“The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
— Albert Camus
Some time ago, on a normal ride home, suddenly my life felt small. It felt packed into the bus with people I didn’t know and would never talk to. We were just there together, going in the same direction.
I watched the city pass by through the window. Buildings, old shops, a landmark that showed up for a second and then was gone. The sky stayed blue. The afternoon felt slow and steady.
The man sitting in front of me fell asleep. He was snoring. I noticed it, and for some reason I kept noticing it. I don’t know why that stayed with me, but it did.
The bus kept moving. No one reacted to the snoring. No one laughed. No one complained. It was just another sound, mixing with the engine and the traffic outside.
I sat there thinking about how normal everything felt. Strangers sharing a small space, each of us carrying our own day, going somewhere without really asking why this route, why this time, why this life. The city kept sliding past the window. The afternoon stayed calm. Nothing special happened, and yet it felt heavy in a quiet way.
As the bus moved on, a thought came back to me. Not clearly at first. Just an image I had seen before and never really forgotten. Maybe you’ve heard this story before, maybe you haven't. A story of a man pushing a stone uphill. Reaching the top. Watching it roll back down. Then walking after it.
I had read about it once. A while ago. The Myth of Sisyphus. It was a book by Albert Camus. I read it because on the back cover Albert Camus looks so cool, with a cigarette in his lips.
Back then, I remember thinking how cruel that task was. To work so hard, only to begin again. But sitting on that bus, the image felt different. It felt normal. Like waking up every day, leaving the house, doing what needs to be done, and coming home tired.
I looked around the bus again. At the quiet faces. At the man sleeping in front of me. At myself, sitting there, thinking these thoughts. It felt like we were all pushing something. Not the same stone, but something heavy enough to keep us moving.
Camus wrote that we must imagine Sisyphus happy. I wasn’t sure if I believed that. But I understood why he said it. If the stone never goes away, then maybe the only choice left is how we walk beside it.
When the bus stopped, the snoring stopped too. People stood up, fixed their bags, and stepped back into the street. I did the same. The bus drove off. Another one came.
The city kept moving like it always does. Cars passed. People crossed the road. Sounds came and went. Nothing slowed down.
The image stayed with me. The stone. The climb. Knowing it would fall again.
I didn’t feel hopeless. I didn’t feel comforted either. I just saw how days repeat themselves, how effort fills our lives without asking where it leads. Maybe that was fine. Maybe that was the point.
So I kept walking. Not because I had found meaning, and not because I had given up on it. Just because the road was there, and like everyone else, I still had my stone to carry.
