Dancer
I have always been a bad dancer, and for years I have been waiting for that someone who would be patient enough and tolerate the idea and the practice of dancing with me.
Years passed and I should have known better. I never should have tried my feet, dancing along with professionals. How could I have known that this dance would be my perpetual ruin? Of course I should have known. I am mature and I know a lot of things.
I have big plans. Fantasies. Illusions. Innumerable impossible dreams. And in my desire to accomplish such and turn them into reality, I have not only lost myself but these very dreams. Nothing remains but frustration. Why did I ever do that, pretending that I belong? Why do I keep poking my head into the cold and dark and uninviting room lit by torches and chandeliers and people who eat food I haven’t tasted, wear clothes I never wore, speak in tongues to foreign and dance in a music I could never adore?
But I keep telling myself. I wanted this. I am holding on, albeit I must not stay in the dance floor. Clowns and jesters could not forever be strong amidst ridicule. The stage is cruel, so are the dancers. I am not good enough and before anyone tells me so, aloud, I should leave.
it took me so long to realize all these but it will take me just as long to leave it all.
Yes, I am the world’s biggest Saddist. My impotence destroys me, my frustration rages deep inside and I am blinded by my inability to cope, when everyone and everything else seems to dominate.
Dance, dance,dance.
