There is a man, named Diogenes
the Cynic, the philosopher who challenges
Plato and walks with a lit lantern in broad daylight,
in a jet-black cast-iron cauldron,
pulling himself up a mountain, an impossible mountain,
with nothing more than a hammer;
the mountain is made
entirely of reused and unused objects
made of metal and playgrounds and unfinished construction,
a church, a home, a bucket, a snake,
made of snow and rocks and unnatural obstructions,
a top hat, an oar, an anvil, an orange;
Diogenes is not alone on this mountain, this impossible mountain
there is a single other soul,
an expressionless man named Bennet Foddy,
who encourages Diogenes, but sarcastically, without
empathy, taunting Diogenes to continue; he goes where Diogenes goes,
a companion only capable of providing useless rhetoric and bad advice;
he quotes the greats,
Nietzsche, Lewis, Williams, Dickinson:
“pain has an element of blank; it cannot recollect when it began,
or if there were a day when it was not”
Shakespeare, Poe, Tarkovsky, Lewis:
“the pain I feel now is the happiness I had before - that's the deal”
— the mountain is not solely composed of items,
it is also composed of pain and frustration, of suffering and regret,
but Diogenes cannot feel these things,
(Diogenes is long dead, he cannot feel anything)
he is only a vessel for some higher power,
some great puppeteer controlling his every action
forcing him to climb this mountain, to rise to glory,
and forcing him to fall, crash, burn, down to the bottom of this
mountain, this impossible mountain, only to begin the climb again…
each swing of the hammer gambles success and failure,
each swing brimming with uncertainty; no guarantee of progress is made,
but loss of progress is guaranteed, (accompanied always by sad music),
but I am relentless, and I will climb this mountain, this impossible mountain;
frustration is underrated, it fuels me,
my anger is powerful, my rage is destructive, but my frustration is pointed
and efficient, funneled toward the single goal
of making Diogenes, the man in the cauldron, drag himself
up this mountain, this godforsaken mountain, with nothing more
than his hammer and my willpower;
at the top of this mountain, this impossible mountain,
after ascent, past the objects, past the pain, past Bennett,
and after the cauldron man is no longer weighed down by his cauldron,
there remains nothing
but memory of torment,
bitter taste in the back of the mouth,
remorseful sentiment of emptiness,
unconquerable, undeniable, victory.