Graphic by Henry Barraclough
Round and round, I go, a loop without end. Each pass I make, I press down the frost, scrape away the scars of sweaty human ambition, only for them to return within a matter of hours.
There is no rest, no reward, no applause. Only the steady scrape, crackling of water freezing, the eternal loop of a task that has no end. Each night, I flatten what was once marred. Each morning, it will be marred again. And still, I roll.
I cannot remember a time before the rink existed, before the endless cycle of ice and erasure. I dream of ice untouched by blades. But I am bound to the rink, my mirrors reflecting the overhead lights like the eyes of indifferent gods. The driver believes they control me, guiding me in gentle arcs, but I know the truth: my fate has been determined by those beyond understanding.
The humans. O! The humans, my tormentors. And still, I roll. And as the arena empties and the lights dim, I know tomorrow I will rise again, scraping, smoothing, endlessly. My eternity is an oval, perfectly smooth. Round. And. Round. Right round, baby, right round, round, round…
