I said, “I have no clue how to dance. We must dance.” So, we danced. After a few steps, the dance started to flow, and we continued for a few more minutes. While dancing, I introduced myself, and she did the same. After the dance, it came naturally to ask for her number, to which she responded that she was taken. My mind started playing tricks for a while: it would have been better if I hadn't asked. That was the second dance of my life; the first one was a year earlier at prom, where I was graduating 12th grade. If I hadn’t skipped 9th grade, today’s prom would have been the original one.
But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves; let’s return to the afternoon. As I arrived in my hometown, an acquaintance waved to me, revealing that my original grade was having their graduation ceremony. Naturally, I attended it. The principal held a speech, the dominant students were honoured, and words of gratitude were expressed. Of course, a piano accompanied the event.
As I heard those speeches, I reflected upon my own time in school and the nature of existence itself. To me, school moved to the set of things that are surreal. Living with my parents, seeing my friends every day, knowing the teachers, writing tests without studying for them, and getting a pat on the head for doing anything beyond what was expected... it is all a relic of a bygone era. Nostalgia struck me, yet I knew it was blurry, for I hated school while I was going. But it is imperative: the good times only exist in retrospect. Then, I stopped. I began to reflect on presence since I was stuck inside my head for most of the ceremony, already occupied with the next thing: prom.
You must understand something about me. One of my biggest fears (by fear I mean the resting pulse rising by thirty points) is the archetype of the guy at prom dominating all realms of life, especially social ones. I also imagine this guy to be fairly average, but possessing crucial experience about female nature, which I lack. The latter sentence contradicts the former, but who is to say that fears must be logical? How could it otherwise be that the mediocre man gets a pretty one? If the mediocre one gets the pretty one, it follows that love is random. That conclusion, however, is false – so, mentally, that’s a wall. Hence, the days before, that idea robbed me of sleep. To say people cannot believe in contradictions is to say that you’ve never spoken to one. So, I was worrying. I also didn’t have a place reserved. As such, I also didn’t know who I would sit with since I hadn’t talked to my original classmates for four years. What also stressed me was the fact that I would see a girl I had asked out over the phone nearly a year earlier. I also didn’t know how I would get to prom or home. In the worst case, I would end up walking for three hours. I also didn’t know whether my classmates would still resent me since I used to be a bully in fifth grade. To add the cherry on top, I knew that I would have to perform and show exceptional courage if I wanted to find a girl. There would never again be such an opportunity to find women who weren’t corrupted by university.
So, prom started, and as most of the time, all my fears collapsed. As I entered without a reservation, they told me that a ticket had been reserved for me. Next, all my conversations went flawlessly; I was never awkward or shy. I talked to twenty or thirty people, many of whom I did not know previously. We had to listen to a few more speeches before we began to dine. After that, the dances began, and that’s where this text started. But that one success was followed by ten rejections, but I cannot give up; I cannot fatigue. I ended up dancing with two more girls. I could have danced with more, but struggled to tell them apart; all had the same makeup, dress, and hair. Meanwhile, I caught up with my older friends, classmates, and teachers. That alone made the evening worthwhile, as restoring old friendships could pay dividends for life. The night progressed, and my other friends showed up. After everyone had been admiring my passion on the dancefloor for hours (you’ve never seen me dance), it was time to leave. Hence, I danced with the final girl.
Of the five dances in my life, four took place today. When I dance, I remember all the suffering that lies behind. I am relieved to know that none of it matters in the end. I am liberated by the impermanence of most things. At the dancefloor, everything seems possible. I know of suffering; I know of perception. Almost everything in life will be forgotten except for a few moments. Following that almost every thought deceives, I have no doubt: life is practically only about discipline.
On the way back, my best friend and I reflected upon the night. He asked me to think about what I could have done better. I said: nothing, for this is the last prom. I was glad to have reconnected with my older friends. He then continued to ask me broader questions. I answered with one of my favorite frames: Most of the time, the big and obvious things block progress, not the esoteric details. We trip over the mountain, not the pebble. What holds us back is not mystery, but what we refuse to see. No woman knows I exist – it's as simple as that. I talk to strangers all the time, but none of them are women my age. This was the second event in the entirety of 2025 (and we have June) where I got to know women my age. He asked how I felt about it. I responded that I don’t think about it. The fact that no hot blondes know I exist could despair me, or it could liberate me. Those are opposite emotions; one brings a knot to the chest, the other unties it. But because these opposing logical extremes exist, it means that neither matters. This perspective allows me to live peacefully. It reduces reality to a singular focus rather than a library’s worth of thoughts. It gives me space to focus on the input. I must ensure every hot blonde knows I exist – and that's it. It remains clear remains undone.
Yet, I am not desperate for a simple reason: I know that everything will work out in the end. I know this because I have faith in the heavens above. To illustrate my point, remember that 75th rejection I mentioned previously? Well, as it turns out, she’s now covered in tattoos. What am I supposed to regret?
Overall, prom was decent. I conclude that life remains a struggle.