By March, Sisyphus found himself idle for the first time in his life. They told him he was a “non-essential worker” and in less than twelve hours he had to drop his rock, leave the mountain and indefinitely go home. He found himself giving a last, sad look over his shoulder at the rock before leaving it cold and motionless, wondering how could he possibly be feeling so guilty and worried at the idea of an unexpected holiday. His arms were sore, his head heavy, he desperately needed to sleep. He went home and laid still on his bed for a long time, for days maybe, incapable to digest the news and come to term with the shock. Sisyphus was a good guy, a hard worker, someone that grew up with a strong work ethic, someone that knew too well that at the end of the day nothing really mattered, besides the tangible reality of the bills to pay and the roof above his head; he had been pushing that rock up and down the mountain for the most of his adult life, it wasn’t a special job, it was quite tiring and definitely not exciting, it started as a temporary occupation he found at a very young age when he didn’t know exactly what to do with his life but there he was, years later, still rolling it. He couldn't say he loved it. But he didn’t hate it either: maybe he simply got accustomed to it. He looked at his calloused hands. Sisyphus had never considered himself as a dreamer, surely more as a realist, someone stuck between the roughness of daily life and the hope for a comfortable future, someone that had always believed that sweat and hardworking will pay off, at some point. And yes, he knew life could be better, but as the old folks never ceased to remind him: you’re privileged. You’re lucky. You have a rock to roll when many people don’t. And even if it wasn’t the best rock ever, it was his rock, and that was life as he knew it, that was what defined him, and he had always thought of himself as a moderately happy man, up until that moment. 
So, it was March when Sisyphus had to deal with an undefined number of empty days for the first time in his life, and he had no idea how to fill them. He decided to sleep: he struggled during the first week, waking up every morning to an empty day at seven o’clock, at the exact time when his alarm had been ringing for years, invariably awake after sleepless nights made of nightmares and anxious thoughts about the uncertain, unpredictable future. But then, at some point, his body decided to accept the new schedule, subtly and inexorably, even if his mind was still struggling with it: he also noticed with surprise that he had started to forget his loyal sleeping drugs, always been waiting for him on the nightstand. As soon as his circadian rhythm got better, the trouble took the shape of his waking hours. Sisyphus tasted the tragedy: he didn’t know what to do with himself, he didn’t know what he liked to do. He had been spending all his adult life working relentlessly while waiting for the next bit of free time, and now that he had it, his brain was stiff and couldn’t process anything else than his labour. A pile of dusty books in the living room. He had been trying to read while commuting to the mountain, but he always was too tired to think, let alone to read: so, he had started to fill up those empty hours with online games on the phone. Wake up and keep your mind busy. Wait for the end of the day, wait for the weekend, wait for the holidays. Roll the rock up and down, beg for a raise. I roll it better, I roll it faster, I do not complain. Thank you for this opportunity. Sisyphus believed being depressed, by now. Now that the rock was gone, what was the point of living a life he already considered pointless? The season was changing outside the windows, but he was too busy grieving his past to realise what was happening all around him. His friends got a bit worried. Maybe you should start exercising: you know, endorphins. Or pick up a hobby, is there anything you like to do? He couldn’t say. Hello, I’m Sisyphus, unemployed. I used to push a rock up and down the mountain. Please don’t ask me anything else: I have nothing more to say about me. How sad. He was suddenly hating the rock, yet missing it. Then, he blamed the rock and the mountain for all the wasted years, then he blamed the society for alienating him and his folks for convincing him that the only purposes in life were sacrifice and cumulation, then he blamed himself for choosing fear over courage, day after day, year after year. Sisyphus was soaking in this bran new self-pity when, one day, Summer knocked at his door: it held his hand and pushed him out for a run. Sisyphus believed for a moment that he was going to die, but he didn’t, and he kind of liked it. His arms weren’t sore anymore, his head was lighter and was feeling happier: a lot of things may have changed in his life, but the youth was still kissing against the doors, toddlers were holding hands and running on the grass and random acts of kindness between strangers were happening all around him. The pile of books wasn’t dusty anymore, and the more he read the more he thought, the more he thought the more he grew curious about himself. Maybe life wasn’t that pointless, after all. Maybe something else was there. You should find a new job, they said. I can see you’ve only been pushing a rock all your life, so I am afraid you’re not fit for this role, they told him. I don’t want to push it anymore, he replied, I want to change my life. Grow up, go to work, retire and die. We need someone flexible in our team; you will start pushing the rock up on our hill and maybe in a year you'll deserve a raise, a promotion, a commission; this is a key role, Sisyphus, and we need someone with your expertise. No, thanks: I need meaning, I need purpose. He knew he went through hell and back but not to come back to it. Not to retire to square one, tail in between the legs. The life he used to know was absurd: the life he was now tasting had a vague, promising flavour. You’re spoiled, Sisyphus. You're crazy. Does questioning things make me look like a brat? Debatable. But, are you happy now? He didn't know what to say. But, mostly, he didn't know that he would be, one day, maybe tomorrow maybe in ten years, somewhere along the journey, the teeth gritted and one leg stretched into the dark void of the unknown,  his pockets empty and the will to survive, happy and alive for the first time.