Whether it’s in my locked room or in the kitchen or doing homework, I am always moving my head to some beat I heard that morning or something my friend sang during lunch. Maybe it’s my interest in dance that makes me attracted to music. Since the day my mom pushed me into the dance studio relentlessly, dance was my passion and it still is my passion.
When I’m angry, I dance. When I laugh, I dance. And even when I cry, I dance. My emotions are expressed through this outlet of movement. An artist is an artist but only with sorrow. A boxer fights his best, but only with enough anger. Everyone has an outlet of emotions, but most of which include movement.
Movement can’t be avoided. There’s energetic movement and the occasional lazy movement. The world is filled with movement, wanted and unwanted. Lazy movement is like the small ripples of the ocean just barely touching the coastline. The most energetic movements are felt as tsunami waves crashing against the beach, unwanted. There are some movements, which are in the middle, neither wanted nor unwanted. These are the calm waves splashing against gritty legs, running across the slushy sand. My first-hand experience with movement has changed the way I look at our world, my world.
Early at six in the morning, I looked out the window to see my uncle plunge into the icy water. I knew by the terror in his face that he wasn’t going swimming. I screamed and movement carried my small legs throughout the house, searching for help. My grandfather ran outside to help his only son out of the water. The police arrived and told me to vacate the premises. Of course, at the age of nearly seven, moving from my spot was the last thing on my mind. The doctors arrived to pronounce his death and shock overcame me. Many’s sorrow came in tears as so did mine. My dancing at his funeral was the comfort that traveled on a path to everyone’s heart. Every step I made held an importance. A glide of my hand from shoulder to waist in a diagonal motion would mean his death, and my face would be expressing my sorrow. My feet would move frantically, imitating my search for help. Those who surrounded me felt my every movement, and I understood. They felt my pain as I felt theirs.
Seven years later, at my friends’ sweet sixteenth birthday party, I had been asked to dance yet again, not just as entertainment, but to express my joy for her as well.
Movement can be found everywhere, whether in a daily routine or a cry of emotions. I believe in the world of movement, and dance happens to be my world of motion.
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