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The absurd seems like a type of disease that must face the spirit of the human being. Immersed in a world falsified by the mind, man, for convenience, falls into contradictions and chaos. Philosophers and literati of different tendencies have tried for a long time to penetrate the veil that anguishes man before his own absurdity and that of his vision of the universe in which he lives.

The Franco-Algerian philosopher Albert Camus, in his essay "The myth of Sisyphus *, presents the absurd as a high existentialist and literary reflection, which stands out in the abstract thinking of the twentieth century.

For Camus, humanity has detached itself from life and reveals it in these terms:

the divorce between man and his life, between the actor and his decoration; it is precisely the feeling of the absurd.

The man, as an actor of his own life, stops to think, observing that, behind the stage, there is nothing. Try to mount the scene again, but the canvases fray in the hands:

[...] that singular state of the soul in which the void becomes eloquent, in which the chain of daily gestures is broken, in which the heart vainly searches for the link that resumes it, then it is the first sign of absurdity.

The man looks at himself with his vigilant conscience, naked before the absurd and, although he does not ignore the details of the trip, he must commit to "awakening", he tries to fill the emptiness of his life, but it is not easy. The absurd has won and can not follow its steps aimed at comfort. The man * clarified * by the absurd, has a clairvoyance that distinguishes it from the rest, because it has broken with a structure of thought "sacralized" for centuries of hypocrisy and simulation.

So, it is worth asking, Who is the scammer? The man or the society? These ideas are those that move in the poem presented below:

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So absurd

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Logic?

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From his heaven he dreams of a world beyond the sky.
The ceiling is too close
and it does not allow you to lift your head.
Feel that each movement steals a breath
of accumulated life.
Stays still and contemplates, stealthy
the stampede of their little monsters.
And He see them,
tiny, like small octopuses stopped.
And think: who is watching who?
Try to discover his eyes
and can not blink
and each layer of the cornea dried up
and he cries, he does not want to, but he cries.
They take advantage of the fog in their eyes
to jump on its essence.

One liar recognizes another

Weakened, he falls asleep.
It's better to sleep.
He is too tired.
He dreams. He wakes up.
He does not remember what he dreamed.
He looks at the ceiling and the roof descends.
Feel the weight of heaven on the soul
and when the universe contracts, he expands,
Walk, walk, walk.
He looks beyond the horizon,
beyond, where there must be something
and try to find it.

So absurd

It looks absurd in the face of its own absurdity
and that of the universe that inhabits.
Extinguishing himself in the routine, reborn
in this simulation of reality
where the only real thing is absurd.
Alone, with his vigilant conscience,
resume the step without regret,
but also without faith in its final awakening.
The rest, numb the spirit.
He puts on the clothes of reason
and continues his way despite seeing
the remnants of masks on the floor,
the makeup-free faces exposing
the hidden, the insane,
the abject, the illogical.

Who is the scammer?

Intuition strips the pretentious centuries
and the blind reason,
keep cheating mercilessly.
Enthroning hypocrisy of human comedy
that does not finish lowering the curtain.
The actors and the public
They use interchangeable masks,
adopting the worn everyday poses.
immortalizing hypocrisy outside the theater.
Small and large cling to their masks.
Fiction has become reality or the opposite.
Glorifying the egomania:
"I am who I am",
invoking old rains
with the smell of spent incense.
Blindness looks in the mirror,
seduced and induced
by the spiders that weave incessantly
the threads that hold
the world in its place.

The paradox

How do you forget about the wound if the contour
is it still dyed red?
The uselessness of guilt is useless.
What matters now is not thirst,
of flavors, only the salt that shakes.
It is not the spark that proves a new fire,
only the flame that burns the sky.
"I am who I am"
without forgetting that you are also
who you are,
in the exact measure
in which all
They can be, who are.
The paradox remains active:

Can he create something absolutely perfect, something imperfect?

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Written by Zeleira Cordero (@zeleiracordero).

Bibliographic source:
Camus, A (1963) El mito de Sísifo. El Hombre Rebelde. Buenos Aires: Losada.

The poem was originally published​ on July 25

The images are from Pixabay CC0 Creative Commons

Cereals
Surreal God
Crying
Evil
Hands
Carnival of Venice
Backlighting

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For accompanying me, reading me and always being there ... Simply, THANKS.

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