It's ironic.

How going for dance lessons after weeks of dance withdrawal should make me excited, should rejuvenate me, should ignite my passion until it spills out, ignite my sense until it leaves me breathless.

Yet after Gin's class ended today and I trudged my way back to the train station, silhouetted against the city lights, I cried. Not because I was so fueled with joy at finally being able to dance, but because of the fact that I wasn't able to pursue my dreams of dancing in the recital, because everyone else was so good yet I'm unable to progress beyond my current abilities and level, that everyone else in the class was part of the recital but not me, that everyone else would be improving but not me, that everyone else had the courage the pursue their heart's desires but not me.

By the way, I'm fucking beginning to hate Critical Writing.