My ego dances between a desire to be known, to be a part of something, an overarching distaste and mistrust of my own kind, and a fear of being seen. Sometimes it is a sloppy and frustrated tango, other times a sad, precise waltz.
My mind is a dance hall, emotions on the tables. There is definitely a horn section but they are off tonight. These hands and heart grab and move my feet on the floor. Slow motion, stop-frame style.
Move, click, move, click, move, click, move. Losing awareness of the original intent of the last gesture by the time you get to the next. But we’re making movies nonetheless. Move. Click. Move. Click.
Being shifted just enough to imply movement happening through the night. Sitting, waiting till it’s just right, and the feet go here at one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, and before you know it the sun’s coming up and unbeknownst to me I’ve been ‘dancing’ again.
Like that Sunday Morning Fever dream with the lit dance floor, like a strobe light in the shower; I’m not really there. A memory of me moves out of sync with the beat. Maligned, misaligned and throbbing slowly out of key. You only see the water drops in the flash between the darkness. You don’t see me, it’s a trick of the light used to appear manifest here.
It’s like this. The flashes are so bright it appears I linger through the darkness in between the light. The degeneration of the image over fractions of a second’s time makes me appear to move. That I’m breathing, that I’m dancing all through the night.
One, move, two, click, three, move, four,
and I forget and remember
and forget that I’m even sitting there.
I vibrate as I fade out and in. Ego trying to maintain. Working the floor like a water drop, separate, alone, dancing free fall between nothing and dawn’s early light.
This piece is included in Eden Bloom Eschaton Life