delusional

Dancing is probably the best form of art there is. Rarely does any other form of art exude so much brilliance, so much passion and express so much in the same length of time. Be it modern dance, hip-hop or traditional dance, they all have their strengths and are respectable forms of expression. Simply watching a dance, such as that of MAD’s during Retrospective, leads me to applaud soundly for the sheer amount of passion and power each of the dances express. I especially loved the dance I/Cs.

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Wearily, I entered my house, rucksack in tow. I reached into every pocket of mine and put away all the trinkets I had. Looking out of the window at the exceptionally orange sky, I glanced downwards at Meridian Junior College. The dance studio had its lights on, and the track was open for business. Mistaking my fatigue and bad mood for restlessness, I decided to head down to have a run. For fun.

When running, you might have your iPod with you, set to a playlist of motivational, energetic or just plain catchy songs. Thinking about the past experiences you had with stitches, you consider and proceed to do warm-ups to reduce the risk of getting them. There’s this pang in your abdomen which makes you question if you need the toilet, but you almost always ignore it. You tie your laces really tightly. Can’t risk having those come undone halfway.

And you’re off. Each footstep makes you feel like you’re treading on air. You worry if you’re going too slow, or if you’re – gasp – going too slow! You shake your head and ignore the voices in your head. You pass by the dance studio. Hesitantly, you glance sideways – hoping to see that certain person. How stupid, of course you won’t. Idiot. Desperate idiot. But this doesn’t seem like desperation. More like… admiration? I don’t know. You skillfully dodge a toddler bopping a soccer ball along. As you reach your second round, you start to grimace from the strain. It’s an awful lot of work, keeping fit. How are you supposed to finish 5 more laps of this shit? You remember a senior’s wise words: “LOSE THE WEIGHT, GET THE GIRLS” (a female senior no less) Well, no pain, no gain. You charge on.

A few rounds later, your subconscious asks you if you’d kindly take a rest. You pull out a mental checklist: Am I halfway there? Am I out of breath? Are my legs hurting? No, no, no. With a resounding TAKE THAT, your rationality beats your subconscious into retreating into its cove of primal instincts and bad ideas.

A few more steps later, your shoes have turned into lead-filled clogs. Your breathing (through the mouth, nose-breathing ain’t cutting it) is labored with heavy pants and wheezes and my god a stitch is starting to form. Sweat drips along the contours of your face and into your eyes, stinging it with needles and blurs your vision. And yet, you endure this.

But when halfway through the last round, you can’t take it no more. It’s too much for you. You throw in the towel. The stitch seems to have stapled your diaphragm to your insides, and each breath you take punches more and more needles into your sides. You form excuses to walk, knowing that you’re doing yourself a disservice. Throwing your hands by your side in defeat, you start walking. A slight wave of nausea tickles your throat, the stitch scrabbles at your belly and you take in each breath of air like they were your last. The stitch hides itself, pricking you every time you take a breath.

At last, you hobble past the finish line.

15 minutes 25 seconds. Dammit.

As you walk back to your flat, you glance back, wistful and delusional and maybe a little confused. At the track, at the runners, at the dance studio.

And you ask yourself: A man can dream, can’t he? Can’t he?