Children will climb on something, be it trees, the rubble of a ruined castle, or the burnt-out machines of war. In every age, they climb.
But children become adults, usually, and adults do not climb, but plod along in their accustomed paths while the children giggle from overhead. Those few who still climb the mental, philosophical or physical trees of our playground determine in the end, the course of the others plodding.
But it is the grim determination of those who plod that carries and sets the stones of the dreams of those who climb.