STAIRMASTER

I can do this, he thinks, I can make it through life, as he ascends the stairs, focused, determined to reach the finish.

The world becomes a blur, blank, empty frames on a nondescript wall. Past and present merge beneath footfalls, and the carpeted steps are soft, yet he doesn't feel them—moving forward—takes no comfort in their warmth—onward.

His body becomes pain, he ignores it and goes numb, shuts off his mind, his feelings, every thought, every doubt, all of it—he shuts it out, progressing.

The goal is in his sights, he's trained his eyes upon that sure future, the reward for this brutal diligence, priceless in the heat of pursuit.

He reaches the top, exhausted, awash in the sudden resurgence of feeling, flush upon his cheeks and brow. Life returns, and, opening his hands and gazing at the lines therein, he sees that he has become old: each step, a year, each empty frame, a possibility, portraits unpainted.

He missed the moment.

But he made it through, made it here: the future.

Welcome to the end, as the lights shut off and the curtain drops.

You missed the point of living.

You're done.