The 9-5, the days that repeat, are a line dance. Each step is predictable, a veritable march towards the next careful half turn. Comfort in knowing exactly what comes next. Half asleep and apathetic is fine as long as you know when to turn to the left
Small ballets slip in. They are moments, fluid and beautiful, that take you by surprise. Sometimes the tears come, and the breath catches. We are held, and sometimes it's painful, the sadness, the beauty, crystalized into razor sharp shards.
R&B/Rap throbs, is heat and rhythm. Physical, primal, hands and sweat. Sex with a sting. Pride, and anger, and showing the world that your the hardest, the basest, the meanest.
Seduction slides along a Latin beat. The steps are known- the rules there, but unspoken. Gazes lock and the world falls away. A slow burn, a buzz born in the hips, building, smoking, slithering. Passion carefully leashed, exploding on cue.
An industrial beat clutches my heart, skewing the rhythm; coursing adrenaline and anxiety build. Talons shred my grey matter with each off kilter beat, too fast, breaking all the rules. It's a cat 'o nine, licking your back, each painful lash driving you forward in a frenzy of total madness. It's tearing my hair out, letting go, ideas beating against my skull, choking me with the need for their release
Depression is a modern dance. It's jangled, tangled and painful. The music is pieces that have been injected into a blender, and spewed out in a confused slurry of sound. There's falling, stuttering, disjointed movement. The body bends at impossible angles, trying to keep pace with sounds that make no sense.
There are moments so pure their are Broadway- clean, loud and obvious. Country moments reach out to God for comfort and strength. Jazz moments skip along and slide smoothly when called for.
A dance step. A syncopated beat. A flutter of life.
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