In the doldrums of the long covid-cation, I bear the heavy weight of stagnation. Throughout my limited years of living, I had been a good boy. I jump through hoops of expectations and classifications, dutifully and to the pleasure of many. I must be a prized performer by now, having aced Singapore’s Primary School Leaving Examinations, A’ Levels, and even (to some extent) university admissions. In a swift swoosh I launch towards the highest hoop, my graceful landing resonating with the applause. At the podium, I prime my body for the hypnotic, trypophobia-inducing distant that edges ever closer. It is instinctual at this point: the most aerodynamic posture, the adequate acceleration; I brush past the lower arc with such precise grace. This efficiency was to make room for, I suppose, other things, but now muscle memory. In my dazed vision, some hoops glitter, some ivory, some pristine, some dull. Some smeared with greasy palm prints, some besmirched. In that eternity, I hear the graveyard call out the sermon “The Edification Which Lies In The Fact That In Relation To God We Are Always In The Wrong”, to not indulge in this voyueristic reflective ennui. But God is dead. And I have no idea who killed him; perhaps this was the handiwork of natural philosophers. Though it is nonetheless salient that whoever committed such atrocities had done so with all the subtlety of donning a full set of personal protective equipments. In its wake, ruined pillars stood precariously. A thud! Delirious, I rekindled my focus on the approaching hoops. Through the blur of the crumbling pillars, the hoops emerge; unbridled, they hover. I must now heed the irresistible call of the laws of nature. With unyielding grace and a vengeance for God, I leap.
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