Is there any freedom in progress if all you can do is move forward?

I watch as my wet footprints stain the ground

Receding into the distance and then vanishing altogether

Like memories of a bloodstain

Bleached clean

I climb the rungs of the diving board

Slick with chlorinated sweat

And the mixture of urine and cleaning product we call water

An acrid smell like roses perfumed with mustard gas

Climbing is hard

You are heavy

And the ground is eager to reclaim you

Then you plunge

Like a stone thrown down a well

Carelessly

For a moment we fear you’ll never come up

What is the point of stabbing something that cannot be killed?