Doing nothing would stress me out. So I am still pretty much

Host: The Jakarta sunset was a slow burn, the sky melting from orange into rose, the city’s heartbeat humming beneath it like a low drum. The Gelora Bung Karno stadium loomed in the distance — a monument of motion, its track still warm from the day’s footsteps.

Inside the stadium grounds, light from the lampposts flickered, catching the faint steam rising from the asphalt. The air smelled of sweat, rain, and urban electricity.

Jack stretched, his breath visible in the humid dusk, a towel slung over his shoulder. Jeeny jogged up beside him, her hair tied, her cheeks flushed with life, her eyes bright from effort.

For once, there was no argument yet — just motion, rhythm, breath. But silence, for them, never lasted long.

Jeeny: “You know what Joe Taslim said once? ‘Doing nothing would stress me out. So I am still pretty much active practicing judo with my friends… to maintain our fitness as well as the friendships among us.’”
She smiled, catching her breath. “That’s the kind of discipline I admire — the kind that keeps the spirit moving, not just the body.”

Host: The lights above the stadium track buzzed, coming alive as the sun sank. The world felt suspended between day and night, stillness and energy.

Jack: “Discipline or obsession? You ever notice how some people can’t stand still because they’re afraid of what they’ll feel if they do?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not afraid — maybe they just know that movement heals. There’s a kind of peace in repetition, Jack. Every step, every throw, every breath — it’s a prayer disguised as training.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet at a gym.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s forgotten that the body has its own language of truth.”

Host: A passing jogger nodded, the sound of sneakers slapping the pavement echoing like a heartbeat. Jack watched him go, his eyes thoughtful, his hands resting on his knees.

Jack: “You really think motion can replace meaning? That sweating it out on some track fixes what’s broken inside?”

Jeeny: “No. But it translates it. It gives the chaos a rhythm. That’s what Taslim meant — it’s not just about fitness, it’s about connection. To the self, to the past, to friends who once shared the same discipline.”

Jack: “So you think throwing each other around in judo practice is therapy?”

Jeeny: “It is. Every throw, every fall, every recovery is a lesson. You hit the mat, you get up. The body remembers resilience long after the mind forgets.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant music of the city — the horns, the laughter, the echo of life unfolding. The stadium lights now bathed them in white glow, outlining their shadows on the ground.

Jack: “You sound like you believe discipline is a cure for existence.”

Jeeny: “Not a cure, a compass. When the mind wanders, the body anchors it. You ever notice how movement demands presence? You can’t think your way through a fall — you have to feel it.”

Jack: “That’s easy for you to say. You chase meaning through motion. I prefer to find it in stillness — in the pause, not the punch.”

Jeeny: “But your kind of stillness borders on stagnation, Jack. You sit and think yourself into walls. You call it reflection, but it’s avoidance.”

Host: The air thickened, charged — their debate, as always, a kind of sparring of its own. The track beneath their feet seemed to vibrate, alive with their contradictions.

Jack: “You think movement equals life. But the quiet is where truth hides. Stillness is where you meet yourself — where you can’t run or kick your way out of who you are.”

Jeeny: “But Taslim wasn’t running from himself — he was staying connected. He kept his spirit awake. You think monks don’t move? Even they walk, chant, breathe. It’s the same thing. Discipline is spiritual movement.”

Jack: “And exhaustion is just enlightenment with better abs?”

Jeeny: “Sarcasm doesn’t make you right.”

Host: They both laughed, the tension breaking like glass under sunlight. The laughter was real, not cruel — a moment of air after the depths of thought.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Doing nothing is a kind of death. The mind festers, the heart slows. You stop creating, you stop connecting. That’s when the soul decays.”

Jack: “And constant motion? That’s not life, Jeeny — that’s avoidance dressed in sweat.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But better a running soul than a rotting one.”

Host: The rain began again, soft, silver, steady. It cooled the air, darkened the track, and blurred the city lights into glimmering ghosts.

Jack: “You ever wonder why he mentioned his friends? The way he said it — ‘to maintain fitness and friendship’? That’s what hit me. He wasn’t chasing medals anymore. He was preserving belonging.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the heart of it. The body trains, but the soul connects. The act becomes a ritual of remembrance — of who we were when we still fought for something.”

Jack: “So, it’s nostalgia disguised as discipline.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s gratitude disguised as motion.”

Host: The rain deepened, pattering on their hoods, streaming down their faces. Jeeny closed her eyes, lifting her chin, letting it wash over her. Jack watched, something soft breaking in his expression — not surrender, but understanding.

Jack: “You really think doing is always better than being?”

Jeeny: “They’re the same, Jack — if you do it with presence. If every movement is a moment.”

Jack: “So even this — running around a stadium at dusk — is meaning?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Especially this. Because we’re not just moving our bodies; we’re keeping alive the parts of us that refuse to quit.”

Host: The rain slowed, the city steam rising like breath from the earth. The lights glistened, the track shimmered beneath their feet.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Doing nothing might be the real decay. Maybe the motion — even meaningless motion — keeps the soul stretched enough to hold the weight of being human.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. Movement doesn’t deny stress — it transforms it. It turns still pain into flowing strength.”

Host: They started jogging again, side by side, their breathing syncing, their shadows merging in the wet reflection of the lights.

The rain stopped, leaving behind the smell of renewal, the echo of footsteps, and a quiet truth that lingered like a heartbeat beneath the stadium’s silence —

that doing nothing might preserve your peace, but doing something — anything — keeps your soul alive.

And as they disappeared into the curve of the track, the city lights pulsed behind them, like applause for the simple act of being in motion — two souls running, not from stress, but into life itself.