Me, I Dance
I dance when I’m stressed.
When I feel pressed or anxious, which is often, I’ll exercise, go on walks, smoke weed, and play video games — the usual.
I’ve realized I hate being mysterious.
For far too long, it’s allowed me to hide too many aspects of myself, even from the people I care about.
I mean, think about it.
What is the one way to maintain an air of aloofness, of otherworldly mystique, of plausible deniability?
Never reveal anything. Or be very selective with what you choose to reveal.
The secret to any parlor trick, disguised as real magic.
Keep em’ guessing. Spin it. Too close to the truth? Lie! Cover it up!
Too far from it? Embellish.
Holy smokescreen, Batman!
Mystery
I hate it.
Honestly, it grows as stale as old bread, with a shelf life of about as long.
Eventually, it loses its appeal. People grow bored of the drip feed. They stop giving a shit.
They move on.
I prefer my mystery stay on the page, not in reality, not in people- but I digress, so,
Me, I dance.
When I get anxious or stressed. When the burdens of my objective reality press upon my shoulders.
I dance.
Because it’s a very physical, very sensual, almost primal part of me that I’ve been loathe to explore fully. Or let anyone see.
It’s remained a mystery, even to myself.
I could never share.
But come closer and shhh, it’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone about it.
Okay, here goes: when I am alone, usually after I’ve written one of these.
I’ll spark up a joint. I’ll put on some music, clear some space on my living room floor, and have what I call- in honor of a very dear and deceased friend,
A boogieparty.
It’s all in the title, folks. It’s just me. It’s a party.
And I boogie.
Limbs flailing(rhythmically, mind you), tongue out, sweat dripping- I mean, the works.
It’s a way to separate myself from it all.
From both the objective and the subjective(the bane of many a writer).
It forces on me, albeit in a much lighter, more casual manner, the curse that is self-awareness.
I focus only on myself.
On each individual limb. Each movement. Each beat.
How the music makes me feel.
It gives my body a voice and a language, all its own.
And it screams. It shouts. I only have to listen and act as a conduit.
In short, I dance, ya’ll.
I tap into it. All of it.
The melancholy. The rage. The aggression.
The joy.
The fucking pain.
The Me Who Hides
The mystery.
I set him free. Knowing deep down that I hate him. That I love him.
How could I not? Just look at him, dancing.
He is so childlike, so carefree and tender. So sensitive to the minutia.
So precious.
He makes real magic.
And I break him, lay him bare for all to see.
I have to because he is so precious.
He holds me back.
This me who dances and yet hides it.
