90 Degrees and Humid - 7/20/15

It was hot. I was sweating before I started. My legs were aching from the day before already. I busked anyways.

I picked a suboptimal location because it seemed to be getting adequate traffic, but more importantly because I was tired from hauling my boombox around in the brutal weather and this place was close to my car and shady enough. I knew it was suboptimal before I began, but I let my weakness dictate my course of action.

The day went ok, but I was so tired the entire time. Crowd participation was minimal, so no energy was gleaned from them either. I stayed maybe 60-90 minutes then went home drenched in my own exhaustion. When I got home, I knew already that I had underperformed, but I didn't realize by how much.

I counted $89. I felt... sad. I was disappointed in myself. I stood up and looked in the mirror. Why was I so upset? I was doing something that commanded admiration. It made thousands of people smile every time I went out. I was doing something few others had the capacity to do. The physical exhaustion of dancing in the spotlight for hours would knock out most contenders. And here I stood, looking at myself like a failure.

Every day, I poured more and more of myself into the writing and dancing. I wanted to be more. I felt increasingly human with each passing day, and I could feel the emotions which came along with it. I had created something whose success was based entirely on my decisions. Each shortcoming was my own. My frailty would be reflected in my creation. And everyone would see it. When I didn't make enough money, it showed my weakness to the world. They could see that I was still a man. My symbol would weaken. The DoctorBeDancing would weaken. I chose a poor location because I was weak, because my frailty overcame my judgement.

Ironically, part of the project was to put the humanity and individuality back into medicine. And yet, with that humanity, I had neglected that the weakness of man would follow. Another day, another dance. Tomorrow, I will be better. The curse of the athlete -- always aching to be better than himself despite the inevitable climax. Citius, altius, fortius? Fallacious. But still, we try.