The sky is a brilliant bright blue today. It’s clear with only a few large puffy white clouds and look like something out of a postcard. In short, it’s not what I imagine I would see in Singapore.

But I’ve seen it before on other similar sunny days when Mr. Weatherman felt he’d had enough of punishing us with dreary rain.

I’ve lived here slightly more than half of my life, and each time I head out for the train station, it still amazes me when I look up at this large, beautiful piece of sky. Still surprises me that it is possible to see a sky that is, thankfully, unmarred by cold, unfeeling construction cranes, ever-charting a concrete stairway to above.

I sit on one of the park benches nearby. It’s a running track that had recently been built, but I don’t remember seeing the construction work for it. It was like it had existed in its own world, appearing out of nowhere when the bubble popped and brought it to reality.

One day, a messy unwieldy field; the next, a black, curvy path as it followed the path the train tracks above had carved through this neighbourhood.

To my left, I see joggers running in their FBT shorts and cotton shirts. The light that falls on them is golden, giving their sweat-slicked flesh a tanned glow, as they huff and puff to the sound of bass pumping from tiny earbuds.

I want to run too, I realise.

I want to feel my heart beat faster as it works harder, supplying oxygen to my limbs like a good little machine it is. I want to feel the sweat that forms on my upper lip as I run. I can already hear the music playing in my ears, the woman’s soft voice and that thump-thump beat of the drums.

It was never this way. Had never been this way.

Perhaps a few nights ago, when the moon had been a perfect half, I’d cast a spell upon myself. A fever’s caught hold of me, and I must march to the sound of the beating drum.

Or run, to be more accurate.