Why do we ever tell ourselves that we see things clearly, or even, see things as they are? What kind of myth would we need to tell ourselves in order to believe that? What kind of story would we need to assume to allow ourselves that kind of sight. The sight of the fool, who believes he sees.
Aren't we all just tangled up in little spider webs we have spun; little silken webs of connection. We don't even see things at all, we just feel the tugs of the webs that we use to attach ourselves to the world around us, and the people that inhabit it. Close-to-invisible threads, that have us hooked and glued to the others in our emotional landscapes.
I watched little Sisyphus the spider, rebuild his web again, seemingly exactly like the last one. As fascinating and arbitrary as before. If for some reason, his web were destroyed every hour for the rest of his existence, I am certain he would do the same over and over and over again. And he would not think that the world were set against him, and he would not feel that the world was conspiring to make his life a misery.
I admire his lack of projection. There is no Murphy's Law. There is no luck, good or bad. The world is no more for us as it is against us. Even the negative stories, which can be much easier to pen than the happier ones, give us a feeling of being more than we are. I am no more than little Sisyphus. The world does not see me. The stars do not look down on me. There is no God in heaven shedding a tear at my nihilism.
Puppets and puppet masters, tangled in our strings, choking ourselves on our connectedness.
