Yes, I’ve lost it. Yes, I’ve gone mad.
How could I not have?
I lined up on that racetrack. I’d been aching my entire life for this, dreaming of it. And finally, it had arrived.
I begin planning out how I’ll approach the race. I size up the track.
I crouch into position.
I contemplate my strategies. I remember the importance of controlling my breath. Of pacing myself. The size of my paces.
I look to my opponents. They look visibly weak. They look like they haven’t practiced a day in their life.
Internally, I sneer. Internally, I feel superior. I know this to be the case.
I can already taste it. What it will feel like when I cross that finish line. What it will feel like—
The gun goes off.
—when I leave them in my dust. But I have to remember to keep my eyes focused on one point in the distance. To maintain perfect posture and length of each and every stride. To pump my arms the way I practiced, to remember not to go all gas no brakes at the very beginning, bringing my fuel gauge to “E” when it’s most important!
I feel my feet on the ground, my hands still just behind the starting line. I practiced my beginning stance constantly. The exact amount of distance between my hands, between my feet, trained myself to bolt right when the gun goes off, psychically, even, anticipating when it may happen.
I knew I had this victory in the bag. When was that gun going to go off?
As I looked up to see if the referee even had the gun in their hand, I was instead met with the sight of my opponent running past me, having come up from behind. They slow from a sprint, to a run to a jog — hands pumping in the air — to a walk, to a halt.
What?
It dawns on me.
Yes, I’ve lost it. Yes, I’ve gone mad.
How could I not have?
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 