Clockwork

Clicking, whirring, grinding, thrumming.
The mass of clockwork dominates the sky; I can't see past it.
The teeth of the polished gears are cut with a razor edge; fitted together with such force that a careless touch would result in dismembrance.
Flywheels spin, storing energy beyond my capacity to guess; it spins faster and faster until it slows to a stop and begins to rotate in reverse.
I cannot stop it.
I cannot satisfy it.
It spins and spins and spins and spins, restless, demanding, impatient, filling me with an anxious power, urging me to work, to move, not in words but in a silent, oppressive glare, as though leaning down upon me, its weight growing greater and greater and greater and greater with each second of inaction.
And yet, nothing sates it.
Filled with limitless power but driven to expend it all, I'm pushed to solve problems of ever greater complexity and with ever more nebulous constraints, to build monuments, build them bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger, rivaling palaces then skyscrapers then mountains then planets.
The further I advance, the faster the machinery spins, making me more powerful but forcing my ambition upward; it towers far up into the sky, dwarfing even the most colossal of my achievements, but eternally dwarfed in turn by the tumorous, ceaseless clockwork.

The great, oppressive clockwork demands that I keep moving.
But to what end? To what end?
I drag myself forward, inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, mile by mile.
But to what end? To what end?
I continue to refine my skills, making note of my errors and failures in order to correct for and avoid them.
But to what end? To what end?
Everything I do only makes the clockwork spin faster.
What machine am I powering? Myself? Nothing? I fear it's impossible to know. Would it even make a difference if I did know?
My tower, colored in harsh blacks and whites, thrumming from the innumerable spinning gears within, steadily forces itself upward out of the ground.
Standing atop it, I grow up and up and up and up, teetering unsteadily as I look out on the world from the ever more dizzying height.
Should I stop the clockwork, halt the growth of the tower? No, that's impossible.
Should I climb down? Can I climb down? Is there anything out there for me?
The only meaning I've ever found, the only significance I've ever known, is here, on the tower, in the clockwork.
I have no choice. I am compelled to stay and push, to continue to ascend.
The great, oppressive clockwork demands that I keep moving.
But to what end? To what end?

With each passing day, I push myself further.
With each passing day, I work myself harder.
With each passing day, I toil to reach my limits, so as to force them upward, to force them outward.
Ever upward, ever outward.
The clockwork spins, ever faster.

I look out at the world, at my friends, at my family, at my coworkers, at my acquaintances, at the people whose activities I take interest in.
Are they pushing themselves further?
Are they working themselves harder?
Are they toiling to reach their limits, so as to force them upward, to force them outward?
Are they compelled into strange yet purposeful motion, animated by the oppressive glare of a monstrous mass of living machinery?
Or...

Am I alone in this?

I search for answers, but there are none to be found.
I ask for answers, but there are none to be given.
The clockwork offers me no consolation, but fills me with a brilliant, whirling flame of joy as I fulfill the ambitions it inspires within me.

Perhaps I will find the answers if I push myself further.
Perhaps I will find the answers if I work myself harder.
Perhaps I will find the answers if I toil to reach my limits, so as to force them upward, to force them outward.
Ever upward, ever outward.
The clockwork spins, ever faster.

Written 22 April 2020