Dancing

Why I Dance

When I dance, I don’t want to be doing anything else.

Try as I might to suppress my feelings, I’m an emotional human being. And dance lets me express myself.

I started dancing more in high school. So many moments of my life are dance related.

I remember the highs, times where all I wanted was to dance in my living room. The world and its worries would fall away.

I remember the lowest points, times where I didn’t feel like dancing at all. When I don’t, it’s like I have a million emotions bottled up inside, and I can’t release any of them.

I honestly would not be the person I am today if I didn’t dance.

I don’t even want to think about the decisions I might’ve made if not for music and movement.

Dance taught me how to love my body. Moving forced me to listen to my heart and my head, my arms and my legs.

I dance because I need a creative outlet that’s not writing. I love both. In a way, I get to work out my body and mind.

I dance because I feel good before, during, and after I do.

Dancing helped me cope healthily with some unhealthy issues.

I dance because I love it. I know I’m not the best. I don’t have perfect technique. But I feel like the best version of myself when I’m doing it.

Creative Writing

Hands Of An Unseen Clock

There are no clocks here so every minute seemingly blurred into the next. With every second, it became hard to discern details of the outside world beyond the rounded windows. The panes of glass only served as a division of sorts. It separated everyone inside versus everyone outside.

It’s as if the passengers all signed an unspoken agreement before embarking. A crying baby who didn’t know any better occasionally broke the nearly tangible silence. The mother pacified the kid with soothing remarks. Sitting adjacent to the parent and child sat a young man. The corners of his mouth curled upwards. At one point, the baby fell into silence with the rest of us. Almost like a blanket, the silence descended upon the narrow compartment once again for the reminder of my trip. No one else broke the agreement.

We picked up speed. External lights flashed across the glass, serving to illuminate part of an old man’s face only to cast shadows on his other half.

I was sitting but still moving. Moving from one place to another, point A to point B. I never understood why traveling could be so tiring. My eyes were heavy. It became easier to let them fall than keep them open.

Humans are built for movement. We can stand, walk, and run if need be. People shouldn’t sit for two hours straight, flitting their fingers on a screen the entire time. There’s a need to keep moving, to actively engage in our voyage through life. Even though we travel faster on two wheels or four wheels, as opposed to our own two feet, staying in a tiny compartment starts to feel like confinement. The metal box turned into a place of incarceration rather than independence.

Bodies filtered in through the doors every now and then. Some people left only so others could enter.

Nothing stopped. Even the hands of an unseen clock ticked away.