A high pitch scream came from the brakes, rattling me awake from brief respite. Dirty with hand prints, the plastic windows shook as the ‘train’ slowed to a stop. With a small bit of hope, I looked up, and the doors opened, revealing a solid brick wall. Again. I closed my eyes with keen disappointment, hoping to at least get some more sleep, but the insistent strong yellow incandescent light shone through my eyelids. I let out a sigh; my energy was utterly depleted. I rested my head on the window, only to feel its incessant shaking. A feminine voice chipped: “Next stop…”

The summer before high school, I read Siddhartha. The book follows a teenager as he tries to make peace with himself and the suffering around him. At the end of the novel, he realizes this moment is all that matters, so we should make the most of it. Tomorrow isn’t promised; we can only control what we do today. Soon after I learned this lesson, I saw a post about the Student Council, and I decided to step outside my comfort zone. When I walked into B206 for the Freshman Student Council information meeting, I didn’t understand what I was getting into. I couldn’t see the hours of building presentations, organizing fundraisers, and meeting new people ahead, or any of the future speeches or challenges. When I stepped into that room, all I felt were my nerves and sweaty palms, yet I stayed.

I stare into the blankness of the computer screen. The cursor blinks in and out of existence. I wait for something… a sense– a purpose. I expect to know what to write before it is written. Just as I am about to get a word in, my phone beeps with a notification. I reach for it.

Picture of Dorian Gray Analysis

The flow. It’s a point in rowing where all is unison– where people feel connected to one another through action. The boat feels alive. In this moment, it is imperative to act without error, because a single misstroke will result in the boat falling out of sync. Synchronicity in this manner leaves no room for emotions, thoughts, or identity. It is simple yet difficult to maintain.

The clock ticks incessantly, marching like a neighboring, terrible tribe with tribulations and unrest. Light shines through the windows and gets dimmer as the day goes along. Shadows stretch. Breathing is in the background of the ruminations. The mind begins stressing, “What am I missing? Did I not finish the job? What did they think when I said…”

“Why do you dance?”, he asked me. I looked up from my table to see him standing before me. Just like any other student in the 7th period AP Calculus class, he was wearing an athletic collared shirt and some basketball shorts. The question carried a sense of familiarity–a heavy one. I’ve heard it before, from myself. My subconscious demanded an answer. After I realized how I’d been lumbering on all floors, as it were, and looked to be the least elegant person in the room. “Why do I do this? Why make myself look like a fool?” The question rang through my head and made my palms sweat. I shot quick glances around the room, worrying about how others would perceive me. Throughout my life, I’ve imagined the core subjects, Math, English, and Science, to be the pillars of not just academia but of life. Everything else had little use. These subjects made up how I thought: strict guidelines managed every mental process. If I finished the problem incorrectly, it would lose points. This made things easy, in terms of getting the right answer; if something wasn’t understood in class, someone on Youtube could explain it better. Dance isn’t like that. There is no rubric or judgement. I can’t just follow an equation and find perfection. If a choreography is taught to ten people, they will all do it differently, carrying different emotions. In mathematics, if that were done, points would be deducted. But here? Such individuality is expected– in fact, it is rewarded. Standing in the studio, I looked around, seeing everyone practising their leaps and choreography. It felt like I was standing before a steep mountain that’s peak rose well into the clouds. Every time I messed up, I had an urge to laugh it off and pretend I didn’t really care. Deep down inside I was trying to get better, or more accurately, to feel better. The day I had first walked into the classroom, a wave of fear had washed over me– a sense of alienation. There were no rules of behaviour or standards from the past. On that day, I saw myself as though I were looking at my ego, and it was asking me, “Why are you doing this? Just stop and leave.” I began seriously considering it (leaving). I imagined myself walking down to the office and having my schedule changed, out of fear. I worried about what others would think of me; I worried that my ‘reputation’ would be forever tarnished. Nonetheless, I persisted. In staying, my doubts receded like the water before a tsunami—something bigger was on its way I had cowered, hoping that doing so would somehow shield me, and then, it hit me. Nothing happened. I had been worried about a mirage—the idea that others’ views can change who I am. Living a life for others isn’t living; it’s cowardice. I stayed to build a sense of myself. I stayed to build my self: a vision of who I could become, deviating from stereotypical standards. I gave myself a direction. This mountain was steep, and there was no path. That scared me, but without fear, can there be courage? When I hear the words, “Why do you dance?”, I smile.