Let it end.

Currently listening to: Memory – Barbara Streisand, Cats.

[Every time I listen to this song, it gives me hope and you know how you get those tingles down your spine? Mine runs up my spine into my skull]

My time here is coming to an end.

I’ve got exactly 4 weeks until my last day of work. 4 weeks until my sentence is finished.

Touch me
Its so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me
You’ll understand what happiness is
Then a new day
Has begun

4 more weeks. I keep telling myself that I have 4 more weeks to go. Its just 4 weeks. 28 days. 672 hours. Just as many hours. And it’ll slip by fast.

In between the discharges from hospital, morning tea breaks, standing at the patient status board dismally staring at the amount of work I need to get done on a daily basis to running home after work and either hopping on my computer to shoot someone in the head or heading down to the local watering hole, dance shoes in one hand, CDs in the other, it will pass quickly.

In some ways, it feels like a death sentence. My time here is up. I am going to leave. Except I know that at the end of this sentence is not condemnation but freedom.

My sun-drenched destiny await. Somewhere. Beyond the sea.

***

And on a completely different note…

Non-dancers, you will never understand what dance means to us dancers. For you, it’ll just be your average jiggling/vibrating on the dance floor or stomping around drunkenly with drink in hand and a few too many in you.

But for us dancers, dancing is an art. It is something we practise religiously, consciously or unconsciously. We may not be getting on the dance floor 48 hours a day but in our minds, there is always that space in our heads that run a constant rhythm to whatever dance that we are doing. Its like a little soundtrack to our lives that keeps us in time, keeps us guessing, keeps on our feet, the beat throbbing through our veins. We subconsciously twitch our shoulders to a latin beat, our hips barely contained beneath the desk. Hands want to tap the beats and feet are squirming to do the latest cross body lead that we learnt in class the other day or a new aerial or to pound out a new shine and see how it fits with the music.

Dance events are as close to Paradise as we could ever get because we know that out there, there is a dancer who will completely ruin our entire dancing dream or bring us as close to our mortal deaths when we used to swear that if we could have this ONE mind-blowing dance, our lives would be complete and we would be ready to cark it, satisfied. S/he is out there. Just gotta find him/her. That’s the annoying part.

We dance because it is air. It is as important as the oxygen running through our veins. To stop dancing is akin to holding your breath and turning blue in the face.

But you, dear non-dancer, will never understand that. Whether your passion is with your garden, getting wasted, working, knitting, sports, or whatever else blows your mind, your passion and my passion lies at different ends of a very odd spectrum.

Some dancers are dancers by practice, some by nature.

I’m one of those dancers by practice. I don’t move like those dancers by nature. I practise it often enough that I (hope) look as though I am one of them.

***

Work is meh today.