I tread up the mountain, carrying everything—
my laziness,
my inhibitions,
my worry,
my care.
It's so heavy-
oh, so heavy-
but I must climb.
I cannot stop, for when I drop,
I wouldn't be able to see it—
the view down below,
so fantastical,
it makes one forget the weight,
for a while.
No one's ever reached the top-
and maybe no one ever will,
but I climb,
hoping that title will be mine:
mine to grasp,
mine to speak aloud,
mine to behold.
My legs...
my back....
my arms.....
cut from the rock of my problems.
My back-
burned by the ropes that bind my burdens to me.
My legs-
bleeding from the sharp things
I step on:
bones and such of my predecessors-
they've given up.
But I won't.
I'll keep going,
even if I die,
because a man without dreams is not one at all.
I look around,
millions surround me,
suffering from that same dream,
to climb this mountain.
I see him, a man
with a bigger rock than anyone,
sweating and bleeding
all over.
I slowly make my way up,
right behind the man.
I nudge him up-
I thought I was helping him.
Everybody should go up there,
to the mountain.
He looks back,
smiles at me,
and raises his foot.
CRASH
Millions of feet down,
the height from which I'm falling-
How could he?
Was his dream more than mine?
Was his desire more than mine?
Maybe it was,
maybe mine was too great,
and his,
better than mine.
Well,
I guess it doesn't matter anyway-
FOOM
…
It was a stupid dream,
anyway.