In eighth grade, we took a trip to Busch Gardens for science class. We were supposed to be learning about the energy of motion but realistically, we were just some kids trying to ditch school and ride some roll coasters.
Now though I’m brought back to that split between the energies, potential and kinetic: the capacity for motion and then the motion itself.
And it was easy back then; spit it out on the test using that analogy fed to us about the roller coaster cart at the top of the drop and how it possessed all this great potential. Then its kinetic conversion as it plummeted down through shrieks and spirals.

But that roller coaster, all energy in this grand system, is so aligned with life and new introspections.
For I feel I’ve too long been that cart at the top of the drop, so while I may have all this energy stored up, it’s that potential to push forward.
In reality, I’ve done nothing. No kinetic movement toward tomorrow, no compounding on rail vaulting.
And that’s the one that counts—that’s the one that sees progress—yet despite its importance, it’s so hard to get started.

It’s the cart at the top of the coaster
Inching on forward, asymptotically closer.
It’s singing its way out, wheels howling and coasting toward
Some great unknown, clouds obscuring any notion.

The only difference is life can’t exist on a closed system. It’s like the more the cart stays stalled up there, the more likely it is to break down: for those rails to crash and crumble into rusted specks of dust and end up wasting that potential, no august kinetic to fully realize.
And I know, I know, I know, I know it sounds like some Sylvia Plath derivative dribble, but that’s an inevitable shame because, well, it’s never been said any better.
And definitely won’t be by my young dumb ass, no, not here, not now, not ever. All the while, the cart at the top of the coaster gets lonelier and lonelier as others wheel around, jump over and screech onward. The cart’s complacently packed down into some kind of “well…this is normal.”
I’m really not trying to be depressing; I’ve never been one for melodramatic angst. But it’s a way to compartmentalize, and analyze, and bring some sense to this existence.
And I guess actualization is a solid first step to meet. Next is to snap out of the comfort in my world’s last true meritocracies.

It’s the cart, just waiting to start.
It’s the cart, and it won’t fall apart.
Or, well, hopefully not.