There, just at the end of your strained vision, a sign, proclaiming ever-so-faintly...."Dead End."
And in that moment of seeing, an impossible choice arises.
If focus is put on that sign, on the chipping black letters and the faded yellow paint, there is no room left for anything else. There's no point in trying navigate the road, to what means do you walk towards a "Dead End" sign? Such a puzzle would create utter dissonance in the would-be puzzler, driving him in circles, ripping at the edges of common sense. So instead, focus is driven towards the steps--on the slow descent of each foot until it reaches the brown earth. Look only at the road before you, the deep brown of the packed earth, the way the sun catches the shadows and chases them away in a flurry of dust. Not all is as monotonous as it appears, for occasionally a sideglance reveals a small pleasure; the creeping vines of a patch of morning glory with its small bluish tinged blossoms. Or the bold triumph of an evening primrose rooted among the pebbles.
Oftentimes though, it seems as if the only company to you and your footsteps are the small rocks that tear the soles of your feet and with a short clatter tumble down the rocky sides of the path. Sometimes, instead of pebbles, there are even boulders, straining their rocky shoulders against each other. But in spite of their constant blockades, boulders can be adventures---for instead of walking you are now climbing, and the small problem of each step becomes the bigger problem of how to get to the other side. And for a moment, you may get caught up in the stubborness of the boulder, its persistance in remaining in your path. And triumphant, you'll reach the other side at last, feeling ready once again to continue with your unceasing steps. But looking forward, you'll see that darkened yellow paint: an obstacle bigger than any boulder, staring at you with its sturdy painted knowledge and chipping wisdom.
Although you may look down again, forcing your mind to the tedious contemplation of footsteps once more, that sign will remain, at once immovable and ambulatory, steadfastly planted at the end of your vision, tirelessly enduring in the distance.
But look, see how the pebbles have a red tint? And look how the earth flares up around them with each step, obscuring the smaller ones with a small puff of dust. And see how the earth is different here, as if the pebbles have spilled some of their red shade to mix with the dusty brown torrent. And just there, just at the edge of your downcast vision, a small rock glimmers with dirty flecks of tarnished gold. And somewhere deep in your memory its sullied color brings back an image of darkened yellow paint. Yet your mind compresses in on itself, fighting to retain some sliver of sanity, pushing the mocking words of the sign, the stark black so bleak against the yellow, into a forgetable oblivion.
--and the cycle begins again; a placcid Sisyphus working towards an unalterable and inconquerable fate. A serpent devouring itself, unable to stop yet unable to continue....
It cannot be changed, and it can never be finished.
