no one sees the late nights

and that's okay

last updated on 27th february

Why do we chase something no one else can see?

The idea of hard work is romanticized. Sisyphus, condemned to push his boulder up the hill only to watch it roll back down, is often seen as a symbol of futility. And yet, Camus tells us that we must imagine Sisyphus happy—not because of his naïveté, but because he has found meaning in the act itself. In the pushing. In the struggle.

But if work has no end, no audience, no validation, does it still hold value?

The modern world tells us otherwise. We are conditioned to see hard work as a means to an end. Productivity is currency, and without reward, it is devalued. A man who works tirelessly without results is seen not as noble, but as misguided, even delusional. Van Gogh died penniless, never knowing his art would one day be revered. Tesla, once mocked, died alone, his ideas left to shape the world in his absence. Kafka, too insecure to publish, asked for his writings to be burned—only for them to define existential thought after his death.

We praise visionaries, but only after time reshapes their narratives—only after success retroactively transforms their struggle into something noble. This raises an unsettling question: does hard work matter if its worth is only recognized in hindsight? If effort is not met with success, does it become meaningless? Or is the attempt itself an act of defiance against a world obsessed with outcomes?

If Sisyphus can be happy, perhaps it is because he has severed meaning from validation. He is no longer waiting for acknowledgment or reward; he exists fully in the motion of pushing. And yet, the paradox remains: the world tells us effort must serve a purpose, but the moment we demand a purpose from it, we become prisoners to expectation.

Still, the other side of the argument lingers. If work is inherently valuable, why do we chase success? Why does failure haunt us? If process alone were enough, ambition would not torment us—yet it does. Even Camus, for all his defiance of meaning, was published, debated, and remembered. Even the most steadfast believer in process cannot fully ignore the desire to be understood.

Is this foolishness? Or is it freedom? To work not for validation, but for the sake of the work itself? To live in the struggle, knowing the boulder will roll back down, and still push anyway?

Maybe Camus was right. We must imagine Sisyphus happy—not because the world will ever recognize his effort, but because he no longer needs it to.

But is that truly possible? Can a man sever meaning from validation entirely, or is that just another illusion we cling to in order to justify existence?

philosophy of the absurd

If the world refuses to give us purpose, we are free to define it for ourselves. In this view, effort becomes an act of rebellion against the void—Camus's defiance against a universe that offers no inherent meaning. All are engaged in the same struggle: to work without guarantees, to push forward without knowing if the summit will ever be reached.

the counterpoint

If meaning is self-created, why does failure feel like a weight rather than a liberation? Why do we crave recognition? Even those who claim to work only for the sake of the work are not immune to doubt.

And so we find ourselves caught—between the romanticism of effort for its own sake and the brutal truth that effort without recognition is often dismissed as wasted potential. We claim to admire perseverance, but only in retrospect, once success has rewritten the struggle into something noble.

Thus, the paradox of labor. We tell ourselves that purpose exists in the act, not the reward, yet deep down, we all fear irrelevance. We crave understanding. Even the most self-sufficient among us—those who claim indifference to validation—still long to be heard. Is that a flaw in human nature? Or is it the very thing that makes us human?

Maybe Camus' Sisyphus is not truly happy. Maybe he only pretends to be. Maybe, deep down, he is still waiting for someone, somewhere, to acknowledge the weight of his labor.

Or maybe he has transcended the question entirely—maybe the trick is not to find meaning in the work, nor in the recognition of it, but to let go of the need for either.

But if that is true, then why do we still push?

Is the question itself even worth asking?

To ask if work has meaning without recognition assumes that meaning is something external. But isn't that just another construct—just another attempt to force structure onto something that never had it in the first place? The absurdity of life, as Camus describes it, lies not in whether effort is meaningful, but in the fact that we keep asking why it should be. We search for validation in the form of answers, as if meaning must be assigned to action in order for it to matter.

But why?

Does a river ask whether its movement is meaningful? Does the wind seek validation for its force? Does fire justify its own existence? We impose a human need for recognition onto things that simply are. The very act of questioning assumes a problem that does not need solving. If meaning is subjective, then trying to define whether hard work holds inherent value is as futile as trying to measure the worth of a sunset. The question is a human one—born from the discomfort of uncertainty, the same discomfort that drives us to build religions, philosophies, and legacies.

Sisyphus never needed to be happy. He never needed to be tragic, either. He just needed to push.

"But Peter," you shout petulantly, "to dismiss the question entirely is to ignore something deeply human." And you would hold… a valid point. Unlike the river or the fire, humans have consciousness. Even those who claim to work solely for the sake of the work are not immune to doubt. Even those who insist they do not seek recognition would not be indifferent to the idea of being understood. Because the truth is, humans are social creatures. We crave connection—not necessarily applause, not necessarily fame, but to feel that what we do has resonated, somewhere, with someone.

To say that meaning is self-created is logical—but it is not how we are wired.

Therefore, I argue that neither side matters. Work exists. Struggle exists. The desire to be recognized exists. The rejection of that desire also exists. And at the end of the day, the boulder rolls back down.

But if that is true, then why do we still push?

And does it even matter? Maybe the boulder isn't the burden.

Maybe it's the question itself.

As a parting thought, I leave you with the ending of Camus' essay:

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

P.S. if you want to read the original text of Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus, check it out here!