That invincible summer

Those moments when words suddenly jump out from the pages of a book one is reading and awaken a long slumbering consciousness to some deep realization about what it means to keep on breathing, nourishing the body, hoping for even a nightmare each evening just to experience again what it feels like to dream while asleep, and going through all the motions of this existence - such moments seem to be getting really rare these days. Perhaps the unintended effect of doom scrolling on the phone, whenever one gets a chance to take a short break from work, somewhat numbing the mind to all the horrors, chaos, insanity, and idiocy happening all around. 

Or some kind of dulling of the spirit from these consecutive days of encumbering grayness and intermittent rain. Maybe from a creeping exhaustion in the face of all these competing demands for one's time, attention and energy, those long restless nights of back pains, or the tasks that seem to have no clear end in sight? Whatever the reason, or perhaps precisely because of such probable causes, it's really such a boon nowadays when these types of passages activate some insight-processing neurons inside the brain and generate those initial or partial awakening to and understanding of this thing called "life" (insights about one's real nature - a kensho of sorts?).

Like this one morning, having decided to spend the few remaining minutes before formal working hours start by reading a few pages of Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, chanced upon this piece titled "Return to Tipasa" where the philosopher of the absurd describes a visit back to this ancient coastal town full of Phoenician, Roman, and Christian ruins in Algeria and meditates on what this meant for him and his constant efforts to reinvigorate a sagging spirit:

"At noon on the half-sandy slopes covered with heliotropes like a foam left by the furious waves of the last few days as they withdrew, I watched the sea barely swelling at that hour with an exhausted motion, and I satisfied the two thirsts one cannot long neglect without drying up - I mean loving and admiring. For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving. All of us, today, are dying of this misfortune. For violence and hatred dry up the heart itself; the long fight for justice exhausts the love that nevertheless gave birth to it. In the clamor in which we live, love is impossible and justice does not suffice.  This is why Europe hates daylight and is able to set injustice up against injustice. But in order to keep justice from shriveling up like a beautiful orange fruit containing nothing but a bitter, dry pulp, I discovered once more at Tipasa that one must keep intact in oneself a freshness, a cool wellspring of joy, love the day that escapes injustice, and return to combat having won that light. ... There the world began over again every day in an ever new light. O light! This is the cry of all the characters of ancient drama brought face to face with their fate.  This last resort was ours, too, and I knew it now.  In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer."  

Must have encountered that last line before from somewhere as it sounds so familiar. Or it could also be a buried memory from that very first reading of this slim collection of essays. In any case, Camus' words resonated quite well with this moment, and all its attendant feelings and thoughts. Talk about Jung's synchronicity. Summer has definitely ended for now in this part of the globe. Typhoons are now being born in that vast ocean to the east, and lining up to wreak havoc once more to these islands. There's this oppressive cloud of uncertainty in the face of what the coming days and weeks could bring. Simply hoping for that indomitable light to shine through.