It was an original story, well- if you can call it that. Read it how you wish. Personally, I like the idea of Harry and the Dark Lord taking the fight all over the world, intruding on all the cultures and times that people hold dear, only to be lost in a dystopian post-Apocolyptic wisp of vapor. Consider it a salute to Plato and his crazy Realm of the Forms philosophy, I guess. Read it as you will. Its deliberately nebulous.
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Slow dancing in a burning room. We sidestep the embers, waltzing through the fractured air as it bakes around us. The very oxygen we encompass is screaming for mercy. Star struck in the centre of the Dining Room, as the Sun romances the planets, we spin. The African mood takes us, and we stomp the tribal rhythm with our heavy mass. Pockets of cool air pass us by, like the blanket of random gases woven from the very fabric of the Universe. We devour them.
We never miss a step.
The Library whispers to us, and the ancient Persian rug is more crimson than it ever was before, cracking with undisguised glee as it Jives with us, and the cinders Polka among the text, caressing them with an uncharacteristic softness.
An ancient Hallway takes an Oriental twist, and Chinese influence is abundant. Bamboo crumbles to red sand, and we glide a silent, barely-visible ceremony upon it.
The Stairs remind us of Old Swing, and we blitz the collapsing structure on war-torn vapours. Quickstepping the charred carpet, our work is done. The banister is ripped by handsome ruby tongues and it whispers sexuality and oozes the sensual tones of long lasting Latin love.
We never miss a step.
We Tango to the sound of the lead tiling melting in the Landing, the effervescent tar-like substance it creates coats our bare matter, steaming and smoking as it tears through us.
We never miss a step.
A contemporary mood sweeps us off our feet, and we briskly storm the Attic with vigour and spirit. The dust burns around us, and the delicate lost tomes of history crumble to ashes. It floats with us, and flows within our movements like a veil.
We never miss a step.
Pirouetting from the remains of the destroyed rooftop, we cackle to the sky- so clean and clear, as we race to the empty space, longing to feel it against us. We crave that air, the deep, full and rich seam of hydrogen, oxygen… so pure… ooh, the thought make us shiver with unbridled delight. Ballet only takes us so far.
With a dying Odissi pose, we shrivel up with praises to India, and the stylistic curvaceous forms are well suited to our beautiful exit. The imposing demeanour is a fitting end to our dance- We. Were. Feared. A ferocious last burst flies defiant from our fingers- the last sign of resistance.
Tragic and elegant, we fade to wisps as the sky mourns our loss, opening its heavens to raise a blaze of hydrogen-oxygen combinations, tinged with the heady mix of blood and ash. The scent is deadly, and we absorb this poison reluctantly.
It quenches our thirst to move, and in the end, we lay to rest. Fire was our partner and we smirk in the shadows that we are. Curling and twisting, we escape the best we can, striving to the highest, damp atmosphere.
Smoke is only a sweet toxin, and the greatest gift of all is passion.
We never missed a step.
- z