When I was small, I thought that life was like climbing a mountain. It would be a hard but exciting ascension, pulling myself up rocky crags, all the while my blood pounding with "I think I can, I think I can," like the Little Engine in one of my favorite storybooks. Eventually, I would reach the top and, exhilarated, survey my vast domain. All that would be left would be to run joyously down the other side.
It wasn't too long, however, before the scenery on my climb began to look familiar. Hadn't I passed that tree a couple times already? And wasn't that vista uncannily similar to one I had seen recently?
I tell myself life isn't just a circle, spinning around fruitlessly like the backdrops in the ancient wild west movies that my dad bought us when we were kids. Instead, it must be like one of those tornadoes in the cartoons, spiraling in wider and wider circles until it eventually takes me up to the sky.
I hope I'm right.
It wasn't too long, however, before the scenery on my climb began to look familiar. Hadn't I passed that tree a couple times already? And wasn't that vista uncannily similar to one I had seen recently?
I tell myself life isn't just a circle, spinning around fruitlessly like the backdrops in the ancient wild west movies that my dad bought us when we were kids. Instead, it must be like one of those tornadoes in the cartoons, spiraling in wider and wider circles until it eventually takes me up to the sky.
I hope I'm right.
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