Letter to M., II
I trust that these letters are still lying under their 8-feet grave of silence and ignorance. Or else, what’s the point of me writing them.
Recently, I’m obsessed with Albert Camus’s “The Myth of Sisyphus” in the most literal sense of the word (and the literal meaning of it, in my sense, is that although the book makes me sleepy sometimes, I persist in finishing it).
There is a point in the book that I want to discuss. Albert Camus posits that the start of a man’s disappointment is when he begins to hope. And that if God is real, he would be the most ugly, greedy, and cruel being.
I don’t know about your Jesus Christ, M., but I do have some knowledge of Buddhism and Confucianism.
And the moment a man stands before Buddha to pray is always the most ugly, greedy, and ugly human.
(The literal sense here, if you’re interested, is that I once heard a man prays Buddha for a win at a gamble. Does Buddha ever grace the casino with his presence, I wonder. The serene look on his face says he does not, though.)
But putting everything aside, M., reading “The Myth of Sisyphus” proves to be a hard task. It’s even more difficult when you’re not here, and my knowledge regarding philosophy has always been lesser than yours.
The literal sense here is – oh, but who cares what the literal sense is anymore.
I used to tell you that hope is not for me, and I am slowly moving to that phase where I refuse to hope. For example, I have refused to hope that we will see each other again. And if it is true that the moment one has hopes is the moment one begins to be disappointed, then what would that make me?
The deeper I travel through the dark and pessimistic world of Albert Camus, the more I rebel against the racing thoughts within me. Why are we still hoping, they say, if hoping will only cause us more pains and sufferings instead?
But M., amidst these hard times – amidst the recent chaos and the sweeping death, hopes are our only weapon. And if death is the end of it all, our hopes will still remain as a part of us, forever burning, forever living.
The moment we hope is the moment we are disappointed. I have no doubts about that statement. Neither do I have any arguments against it. But M., doesn’t that make us a stronger being?
The war is on, and we defend our last hopes the same way Pandora defends it in the mystical legends and tales.
Or like my cats. Abandoned in shelters and waiting by the clear windows for someone to love them. Abandoned in the hands of a person who believe in herself more than what science has to offer, waiting for someone to rescue them. Or abandoned in a clinic, reminiscing about the time his owner feed him nothing but dog food. The cats persist, M., they continue to live on this fragile thing called hope.
And how wise and right they are.
Until next time,