The contrast isn’t between the real, but takes from unreal. Things on pedestals, unachievable, unrealistic, not something that fingertips will ever graze, nor grasp. So the strain in my limbs and contorted knots in my lungs pull from below, but can’t seem to transgress gravity. I’ll blame it on the fetters that no one can see, they tug me down, shackle me still. There are no chains, no lead ball, and I’m just trying to leap to clouds, because the ground’s never been good enough. I’ll call myself Sisyphus, but I haven’t some God-inflicted tortured plight. The condemnation stems from within, but maybe that’s where the Gods begin their greatest work.