Solid, Ancient Walls

Ramparts! They bedevil me.

My exploits are constantly hampered by these solid ancient walls arising, abruptly,

--from jungle floors--

--in the depths of a thousand miles of sea--

--in glorious view of a mountain's summit, just beyond my grasp--

--in the sand-blown winds of the desert--

--on the moon.

What brilliant paranoia inspired their construction, for the life of me!

Egyptian slaves with their clever techniques of rolling blocks on felled trees?

Extraterrestrials with their freakish beams of light?

Whales, beneath the sea, hurling their dying selves atop ever-growing walls of corpses?

How is an adventurer to explore?

How is a conquistador to succeed?

How is a determined missionary, tearing through tropical vines,

To traverse successfully the jungles of Brunei?

How is a lonesome fiddler to dance, unimpeded, on a lunar crater's floor?

For I have been all these things, and in all these things deflected by these damnable ramparts.

I am nothing to those walls, and I hate them.

They tower! They are immovable! They are Brainless and unconscious!

Were I an ant or a centipede, I would walk vertically, non-chalant.

Were I an atom, I would invisibly bounce my way

But I am the leader of an expedition, damn it, a maverick

And these unweildy ramparts confound me! They rob me of purpose!

They belittle my ways!

I am telling you, they are most inconvenient!

They--oh.

Hello?