Amalgamated archetypes

Dirt. Dirt under my nails. I claw myself out of the grave I buried myself in. The horrors an unstable mind can conjure. I write this with a conflicted heart—not as heavy as it once was, but lighter than it’s ever been. Gradual growth. Expansion? Ascension? By the time I reach the end of this, maybe I’ll have sorted the war within. This is for clarity. As everything ever was, and everything that will be.

In alchemy, the law of equivalent exchange states: nothing can be created without something of equal value being lost. As someone who reflects obsessively, who questions everything, I’ve lived a questionable life. My actions, more questionable. I dwell in a glass house, the essence of transparency. And yet, there’s no one I’ve been more abusive to than myself. For every two cents I gained, I lost a billion dollars in spirit. The law was never equivalent. I bled more than I built. My situation didn’t change. Maybe I did.

Camus says in The Myth of Sisyphus, "The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart." You must imagine Sisyphus happy. But I’m Sisyphus, and I don’t imagine myself happy. Not yet. I want the boulder to crush me. I want it to end. Disappointment is worse than death. The lack of clarity. Stuck halfway up the summit, unable to quit. I’d rather go too far than not far enough. Is that what the law meant? No. There is no law. There is no path.

To build again, I must burn everything down. Familiarity doesn’t tempt me. Prominence does. I sound repetitive because repetition masks the truth: I am growing. But the truth is I’ve failed—as a son, a friend, a human. I cannot write happiness. It’s not that I can’t. I just don’t find comfort in it. Writing depressive shit keeps me aloof. There’s ugliness in all of us. I’m just more open about mine.

This needs a reset. I am too self-aware. It's killing me. There’s nothing equivalent about this. Self-awareness chips at my soul. I swallow it all. I tighten the noose around my existence. I analyze everything until I feel nothing. I can’t even be angry—I see every perspective. Everyone’s right. I’m also right. And it’s all meaningless.

Absence of emotion. Void. I thought heightened awareness would bring joy. But it left an empty room with nothing to fill it. No ambition. Just a hope to land on the right side of something that doesn't exist.

Am I not here to reach a glorious purpose? Or am I just nothing?

This is desperate yearning—the ugly kind. I want to unleash rage. I want to dissolve. I don’t want to love myself anymore. I want to be devoted. Love fades. But devotion, that’s something I can believe in.

I no longer judge myself by time. I judge by acts. And I’m stuck between acts. Crossing bridges while building and burning them. I don’t write for a crowd—I write for myself. I talk to myself in acts. This was after that. I clap for myself because I’m amazed.

There’s nothing equivalent about this.

I imagine Sisyphus as a professional sufferer. The final act: I sit at the Last Supper with clones of myself, and every one of them tries to kill me, including me. Is this all real? Or none of it? What is the significance of anything?

Icarus and Daedalus. Stuck in the labyrinth. To escape, Icarus built wings of wax. He soared. Ignored every warning. Just like me. And as the wings melted, as he plummeted, they say Icarus laughed. Because he soared. He went too far, and that’s better than not far enough.

I am Icarus. I am Sisyphus. I have sacrificed everything. I carry the boulder, and I’ll die at the summit. And yet, I continue.

Camus and the Greeks spoke of sacrifice. But there’s no reward in their myths—only endurance. Yet Islam says otherwise.

"If Allah finds goodness in your hearts, He will give you better than what was taken from you, and forgive you. For Allah is All-Forgiving, Most Merciful." (Qur’an 8:70)

I no longer live in despair. I live in duality. Yes, I write depressive shit because I’m good at it. But I am more than that. I want to be more than that. Every day I try. I hold myself accountable. This is flawed writing. But I am perfected writing. Allah wrote me into existence.

He is outside time. To Him, there is no yesterday or tomorrow. My flaws are within the story He authored. And in His story, every sacrifice counts. Every sin is recorded once, but every good deed is multiplied by ten. This is Islam. We are not slaves to a myth. We are slaves to the Most Merciful.

There is no equivalent exchange. There is only what Allah wills.

I no longer sit with horrors. I sit at a table of goodness. My heart, light from grief. My eyes, soaked in mercy. I pray to the Lord of Mūsa (عليه السلام), who split the sea. To the Lord of Ibrāhīm (عليه السلام), who cooled the fire. To the Lord of Muḥammad (ﷺ), my beloved. I am guided by His light.

I walk a path of meaning now. Even if I don’t understand it today, I trust in the wisdom of tomorrow. I haven’t destroyed myself for nothing. I’ve redeemed myself.

My glass house is no longer shattered. It lets light in.

And the conflict I once carried? Gone. All I feel now is clarity.

It’s 1:06 a.m. I’m at work. Night shift. Surya just handed me a cardamom-flavored Belvita. He always brings samosas and water bottles. May Allah guide him to the truth, to Islam—the one true monotheistic faith.

I will make it to the summit. With grace. With mercy. With patience.

I am Sisyphus. And the effort to reach the peaks is enough to fill my heart.

You have to imagine Sisyphus happy.

You have to imagine me happy.

Icarus