Some want to reach a point of victorious finality. They want to enter the end-zone of the football field, slam the ball down, and celebrate. Finally, they say, I have arrived!
I have made it, they bray. I can now coast a little, they assure us. Listen to these asses bray, bray, bray. I can hardly stand it. And then they tell us: I can subsist on this victorious inertia for a while, and see where that takes me.
Oh, if only it were that simple. The end-zone, sorry to say, does not exist. Fortune hates inertia, and will snuff it out quickly.