I repeat, like Sisyphus, the same actions, thoughts, stories over and over. I feel doomed and thrilled to relive the same moments again and again. I dread the twinge of introspection that creeps in with the cold, but once it arrives I find its presence like an old sweater. A familiar space filled with comfort and possibilities. And when the chill recedes and I once again find the sweater hot and confining, the deep melancholy leaves my bones. I rejoice in exploring new places and being reborn anew. I’m filled with naiveté, excitement, and hope. But as summer drags on, I miss my quiet spaces, cold dark mornings, and the peace only being alone with your thoughts can bring.

There is always a fear that the darkness that lurks in the shadows of winter’s branches will consume me. That when spring comes, I won’t be able to pull myself out of the sweater and I will suffocate from its smothering nature. And every fall I worry that I won’t be able to find that cozy place within my soul that allows me to feel safe in taking risks. Without fail though, every year, its tendrils sneak up my thighs as the leaves turn red and gold and my breath makes beautiful silver puffs in the moonlight.

Like Sisyphus, eternally stuck in the pointless repetitive action, I find beauty and joy within the cyclical nature of experience. Camus, in The Myth of Sisyphus,[1] tells us that Sisyphus finds freedom in confronting his Absurdity. That it is during his long walk back down the hill that he realizes he has no master, no meaning to uphold, no narrative to craft.

Camus sees the Absurd in our clash with a world that provides little order and no meaning when humanity demands it. However, another philosopher, Nagel, argues that this contradiction is internal, that it is our awareness of ourselves, of our own arbitrary, idiosyncratic actions that is the Absurd.

My Absurdity is the clash between a hyperawareness of the construction of meaning, yet an undeniable belief that I’m stuck in a perpetual cycle of emotion, growth, knowledge, and self-destruction.

I can’t help but tell stories, construct meaning to my existence. I give simple mundane moments intense poignancy and resonance in my life. Each gesture and experience allows me to tie down my identity in a linear narrative.

Yet, I know this is all a lie: a construction as flimsy as a piece of translucent paper. I see this when the narratives change, when the clean neat lines prove complicated. This contradiction, this dissonance haunts me.

Most days I can confront this ghost, my Absurdity, and push my boulder up the hill, just like Sisyphus, and walk down calmly at peace with the mechanics. But once in a while I trip and the boulder runs me down. Or my tired legs give up and I roll down the hill like an exuberant child. And there are even some days where I just refuse to push at all.

[1] Camus, Albert, The Myth of Sisyphus, (Hamish Hamilton, 1955).

Today I’m technically 23, but I’m not quite sure.

I send my sister a link to Taylor Swift’s Grammy performance.[1] I know she won’t say anything about it, she never does, but I know she’ll be able to read between the lines.

My mom is often so confused by the fact that we don’t actually ever have vocal or textual communication with each other, yet we can feel connected. As I peruse the history of our facebook convo it is littered with links to cute puppy GIFs, Harry Potter quizzes, and warm puffy jackets. Each seems mundane, however we know that each current interest references a past we share together. Cute puppies can suggest the dog she and I loved and lost recently. Harry Potter quizzes remind us of all the nights we cuddled in her bed while listening to my dad read the series aloud to us.

She doesn’t make a comment about the “T Swizzle” video, but I know she’s remembering long car rides and the very smelly hockey bags.

We are 4 years apart and while I was in high school I kept trying to introduce her to good music. Except that I didn’t know what good music was. She and I always settled on listening to a Top 40 radio station on the way to school. We didn’t like most of the music, but we didn’t hate it either. It also led to some interesting morning conversations such as when my dad from the back seat asked what Fergie meant by her “London bridges were coming down.” I still don’t have a good answer.

It was on one of these mornings that we discovered T Swift. Her melodies were catchy and lyrics reminiscent of our teenage friends. I ended up buying her CD and my sister would constantly beg to share headphones with me while we drove through snowy New England towns to play hockey games against Canadians who were clearly born with skates on their feet.

But somewhere along the way this love of her music wasn’t about the music anymore. It was about experience of sharing something. Every time a new single or album came out one of us would send it along and both mock its girliness and praise its honesty. We love T swift. We hate T swift. And despite the fact that many of my young music loves have passed their rotation on my ipod, Taylor Swift remains, all so that I can remember the insignificant memories of our childhood. How else am I supposed to get my neurons to fire so that I hear her horrendous singing voice carrying through our Jack and Jill bathroom while I brush my teeth with my eyes closed because it is WAY too damn early?

So as I’m listening to T Swift’s Grammy performance I hear ALL her other songs and see my sister and I leaning toward the middle seat with us jamming out each with an ear bud in. I’m always on the right side, she’s on the left. The car changes. The landscape evolves. Our ages fluctuate. But that connection is constant.

Michaela tells me that it’s T Swfit Tuesday in the locker-room. And today the physical distance feels smaller and I can almost feel her sitting next to me in the car as I drive down streets she’s never seen.

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BidCMrrJXA