To me, dancing is nothing more than a momentary loss of inhibition, the rapid variation from wanting to express the inner soul within, to finding the desire to instill the liveliness in every fiber of natural being, surrounding, yet comforting the soul’s prolonged solitude. I believe that those individuals who continue to dance alone often find it difficult to blossom to the sum of their potential, and, as a result, merely wiggle about aimlessly, like a flower during the spring, deprived not of the plentiful torrent of a fresh spring rainfall, but of the unstinting exposure of rampant brilliance that passes just beyond them. Some may blame this deprivation on the cruelty of natural selection, the brutality of a predestined order that continues to alienate the naturally gifted from the naturally flawed, while others may pass the blame onto Mother Earth—her decision to grant an omnipresent dosage of vitality to only a select few.
In my eyes, one “flower” stands out among the rest, naturally flawed and uncommonly eager for the lustrous rays of light gleaming from the golden ornament that continues to hover above me—blocked out almost completely by the scheming screens of silver miasma. To proclaim such an elegant flower as a scarlet rose, however, especially now, would be to ignore its recently committed transgressions—my mind becomes dazed by the very notion, but then I think I hear the rose calling to its neighboring relatives, asking for more rain water. Even now, it continues to allow the fierce rain to begin tainting the formerly orange-tinted magnum opus, removing its once divine countenance, stripping the very fiber of its natural being until it no longer exists as a mere rose, but as something, perhaps someone, ideal, at least in the garden that is my reality.
I then watch as the rose itself begins to grow long, silky dark hair—it must be the clustered lines of black fabric tossing back and forth in front of my eyes. Suddenly, what I originally perceive as the shadow of the rose warps vertically upward, attaching itself vigorously to the back of the flower head, darkening the rest of the flower, transforming it into an image of eloquence, only exemplified in female beauty. The creature then appears to be human, donning a glittered black dress, shaking about wildly on the dance floor, surrounded not by the drenching seeds of rain water, but by the teeming crowd of familiar faces. No, this can’t be the rose garden—this can’t be my reality. In my mind, I suddenly remember the dim sight of the hovering chandelier fixed above my head, the eerie screen of smoke used to bolster the mood of the night, and only what I hear as the ruthless stomp of the rain transcending the rhythmic steps of the dancers. But while the rain dies down, and the dancers begin to leave, the hidden tint of orange glee, previously seen on her face, comes alive once more.
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