Dance is the most intimate expression of what your heart contradicts.
Like a hip-hop dancer that burns the floor with her brand-new sneakers that squeak like timid mice chased by cats. The brow-raising bedhead, baggy tee with bold inscriptions that just screamed rebellion and hardly visible hot pants. The way she catwalks up to the stage over-dramatically and pops to the beat over and over again, not even breaking a single sweat after the intense workout.
Yet, what may lay beneath it is the typical girl-heading-for-Biology you'd bump into anywhere in school. Timid and insignificant, it may even seem as if they were twins from different universes. Same face, different moves.
A ballerina dancer gliding across the stage in her dainty pointe shoes, head tilted but never too much, the gracefulness of it radiating off her like a pure aura fit for Angels. Yet after the thick makeup is off, she grabs the nearest lighter and sparks up the Mild Seven between her teeth, white with a fake look from the many visits to the dentists'.
A futile attempt to hold up the goody-goody-two-shoe image that comes with the frilly tutu and tight leotard that held all the lies and darkness under the smooth elastic.
And it was a perfect escapade for us with true passion for Dance.
Envy Dance, the teacher would proudly brag all the time, for only ones with true talent can step into this World. Indeed, for in the world of amateurs that can actually groove to the beat expertly, only a selected few can dance with passion, reach a stage where all eyes are anywhere but on her. Walk on the stage with pride in a state of pure bliss, pure ignorance.
Leave everything but this behind as you ascend these steps, one left on each.
That is true talent, true talent for Dance.
Get used to what you like and don't like, because all the previous paths you have cruised have crumbled.
Dance night. Something that was whispered into my ear over and over again like a prayer since I took my first step into the Dance Studio. Names normally unheard of blasted through the speakers once covered with dust and cobwebs along with heavy music that echoed past walls filled with screaming people before they sashay, totter, tiptoe, barge out from backstage. I would love the sight of that.
Like a butterfly bursting out of its pupa, soaring gracefully into the air like it was the entire purpose of his life. Once the shell is filled with nothing but damp, stale air, the butterfly would no longer remember how it crawled like slaves under ten bags of rice and stuffed itself with leaf after leaf. That was a dream. Just a dream. And now...now the insect would focus on the beauty of life in its short moment.
The butterfly was the most perfect graphical example for Dance, and the Dance Club had captured that flawlessly.
We were butterflies, fleeting but never eternal.
Because as soon as our lashes are fully crusted with mascara, we leave behind everything.
The spotlights shine on us, the audience left to marvel in a dark corner.
We are blinded, the music beats wildly in our ears.
We are deaf, our limbs move on their own after months of hellish preparation to drill steps into a significant part of our brain.
We are paralyzed, but our soul remains on its toes.
We are dead, but our soul leaves with fond memories of music, of makeup, of costumes...
...our soul leaves with our talent for Dance.
We were born to Dance.