Zipline

Purple and green foamy death below me, I grip onto the handlebars. One push, and I zoom and zip across the pit of spiky cubes, clutching on for dear life. My arms ache, ready to detach. Whether from my bones or the metal bar, they cannot hold my corpulent mass. 

 

Short of the goal, gravity beckons. I let go, and plop face-first into the sea of synthetic fluff. My body hurts, but my soul hurts more. Nothing but shame to share this failure with. I get up, and watch the svelte acrobats perform the feat I could not do. They land feet-first on the goal of the floor across the way. 

 

I won't give up. I can't give up.

 

Sore from my neck down, I get back in line to try again. If others could do it, so can I. One step up to erase the old me, and a second to embrace the new. I grip onto the handlebars again, facing the green and purple blocks of foam. If I fall again, then I know they won't kill me. The next try won't be the last. 

 

One push later, and I'm in the air. Blood pumping, and strength waning, I grip on. The end is near. With my last amount of energy, I spring down and plant both of my feet on the earth. I let go, and my soul sings as I tower over the foam blocks. Try something new, and I can accomplish it. 

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