Clockwork (II)

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?