#flat circle

I'm not really tryna make it hard

Don't have to come but I'm getting in the car

Doesn't matter if I make it far

The myth insists on punishment, but I see process.

Sisyphus doesn’t suffer: he persists. Each ascent folds him, his energy into the rock’s inertia, each descent opens him again to the weight of the world.

Camus says one must imagine him happy, but I imagine him awake, present. He knows the world is indifferent, dense, loaded, humming with potential but without sympathy. Meaning doesn’t live in the mountain or the stone. It lives in the contact, in the repetition that remakes him.

To push is to remember. To descend is to forget. The loop holds both: memory and its erasure. The self is built not on what endures but on what is continually remade. Each repetition shifts the pattern of muscles, the rhythm of breath, the interior weather of thought. The hill changes him though it never changes.

The gods wanted futility, but they gave him form.

The work became the mirror.

He became the work.

Time does not pass. It gathers.

It folds back on itself. Heidegger called this gathering a ring: not a circle that closes, but an orbit that holds open the space where being appears. In the ring, the past is not behind us and the future is not ahead. They inhabit the same density of now. Every moment carries the trace of what was and the pull of what might be, all vibrating in the same field.

The ring breathes us as much as we breathe within it. Each return to the work (for Sisyphus), each mark or repetition (for me), is a re-entry into the clearing where presence happens. The present is not a point in a line but a suspension, a zone where memory condenses and anticipation diffuses. To dwell here is to live inside recurrence.

Within the field, time is tidal. Each act leaves a trace that alters the next. The ring is closed only in that all time already exists.

Release date for the new single coming soon.

Today's Walking Photo: Time is a flat circle.