Culminating to nothing

Every step I take
Every move I make
is not done without purpose.
These stepping stones handcrafted
with intention,
in Desire's frothing stew, with
a spicing of perseverance
to top it off.
Every day, I let the memory
fall from the tip of my pencil:
crawl from my mind
to my shoulders, my arms,
to my fingers,
to the soft pitter-pattering on the paper.
I write pages for my descendants to scour,
drowning in boredom.
It's what keeps me going, because
otherwise I can only torture myself
with the question, Who will remember?
Who will remember?
But maybe those descendants...
maybe they won't.
Maybe they wont remember,
and then maybe my infinitely spotless grades
will be for nothing, as well.
My senseless camera roll.
My speeches, spoken by mere thought.
My stories.
My relentless effort, my triumphs.
My relationships, my ups and downs.
My poems.
My poems!
See, at the root of it, it is really that
I feel like a protagonist
climbing the hill of rising action, desire,
rising, rising. We're almost there.
Right? No.
No, because there's never a climax.
Never a summit, but plenty of false ones.
My story builds until I have breathed in
as much as these fragile lungs can hold.
I wonder if my everything,
every effort I've made,
will ever compile
into that one epic storybook moment.
I wonder if I'll ever be able to
exhale that breath.
Or if I'll just keep holding it.
(In the meantime, oh, stories---why don't
you tell me yours? 'Cause
I'm still waiting
on mine.)