Reflections on Progress

The cold, sparse air on the oblique peak pulsated with the electricity of exhilaration, or so it seemed to the middle-aged conqueror of the remote nondescript half-pyramid of igneous monotony. The voltage of the charge increased as the climber of the peak continued to ascend the exponentially increasing steepness of boulders. The scene was lifeless; not even insects dared to challenge his progress by showing themselves. Almost there... So close. The adrenaline that charged the air shocked him to his hands and knees, humbling him before the grade of the unstable, rocky slope. The mountain spat out a boulder pivotal for his balance, momentarily destabilizing him. He became frenetic; it was war. He had to conquer that hideous heap of rock. The reason for this was uncertain to him, yet its necessity was clear. Progress must be made, if for no other reason than to progress. As he climbed higher the battle became more fierce and the mountain vomited its rocks out from under him at points. Ever closer, just perhaps 15 meters more; progress cannot be stopped. The slope grew even steeper at the final stage of the peak’s cap. A small gray skyscraper was the uppermost pinnacle of the mountain, upon which there was a small platform bounded by sheer cliff on all sides but one. The man’s feeling of the air had changed from that of electricity to that of a nuclear reaction. He had deduced the mountain’s secrets, and he could predict the rocks that the mountain was about to regurgitate down its face. Progress was made. His hands with their opposable thumbs grasped the edge of the platform and worked the rest of his body onto the mountain’s tabletop.

It was odd. The adrenaline that pounded like nuclear reactions had stopped its fission. He felt uncomfortable kneeling on the exposed peak, trembling as he eased up near the edge of the cliff. The air was devoid of earthly sound save a desolate gust of wind that glanced off the blasted rocks. The top was a true exemplification of perfect desolation. As the man peered over the precipice, Phobos clutched him. He took over the man’s body and reeled it away from the edge. The empty wind blew again as he recoiled.

He paused for a brief moment before gladly retreating back down the mountainside to the trail in the saddle of the range. In his mind, the quandary ran of how the pleasure and maniacal glee of progress could yield something so barren and terrible. The essence of pleasure was indeed the seeking of pleasure itself. There was no pleasure in the product of progress: only emptiness, it seemed.

With a jolt he was scrambling back down the slope, finding his comfortable way once again.