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Rocks rolling suddenly over the ridges of mountains. It seemed like the work of an unseen hand, and I thought of Sisyphus, a human forced by the gods to roll an enormous boulder up a mountain. Just as he reached the top, the boulder would tumble back down into the depths of the abyss. Sisyphus had no choice but to descend the mountain and once again push the rock back up the mountain; a symbol of absurdity and fruitless labor doomed to continue into eternity.

 Futility. Nothing frightens me so much as that word. I think of myself, alone, taking pictures on mountain summits, and it seems the very image of futility. They come out as looking as though I had been standing stock-still, not climbing up and then back down again. As he suffered his outrageous punishment, what did Sisyphus feel? Gazing out over the earth before me, light and dark chasing one another as they had since the dawn of time, I wondered if the freedom left to me was simply the eyes that allowed me to see this absurdity as beautiful. And if that were true, I could not help but think that Sisyphus himself must have known that, and accepted it, too.

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