spine and spin

Yesterday I cried at a dance performance for the first time. It was a rose wrapped in drapes and a little prince tip-toeing on top of a ball, magic sparkling from the muscles, dancers who seemed to be carved brutally yet so gentle, as gentle as passion can be, the unbelievable strength of a body in love floating through a story. From the balcony of the theater, I felt my eyes expanding vision to another form of explosion. I wanted to dance too. My secret dream is the circus. I keep secrets in the same place as I hold fears, and I try not to understand too much of what I am afraid of. But I’ve always wanted to dance. A tap dancer, to be more precise, if I could ever be reborn.  I am more influenced than I would like to be. I absorb too much of the impact of what is visible to the eyes, essential or not – I want to reproduce what I feel in any way available. I want to dance too. I still want to. So many times unsuccessfully I tried to recognize my body in movement, tried to catch my arms in a better position and understand how my knees work. When I pass by any glass building in New York City, I absolutely hate the way I am standing so crooked. I spent most of my wonders in hopes for a new construction of a spine. How I wish I had a better posture… for that I often think my body was not designed for melody. I hold rhythm in my throat, I try to convince myself I’m only for words and sound and tongue, not ever for the waves and muscles and balance. Can one be happy staying still?  I wish I could be more than what I speak. I wish my body could talk too.