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With the music comes the rhythm I cannot resist. When I am seated, it starts with my feet. They slide across the floor, inviting me to get up, like carefree children with no sense of propriety. When I reprimand them, my shoulders retaliate with moves of their own. I silence them and my fingers start their own rebellion. My body betrays what my heart cries out for. When my hips join the uprising, it is a battle as good as won.
The brain imposes its tyrannical “No”, but quiets down when I enter sanctuaries of abandon and the rhythm declares anarchy. My body celebrates, euphoric, seemingly unstopping, relentless, and invincible. What I would give for it to go on forever. But nothing lasts. And at this very moment, after eons of countless “No”s, my body has given up, thirsty for the passion it has seen and knows to be true, hopeless. I am a drunk, addicted, denied of my vice. I hear the music every day and with it, the rhythm hurts. But it helps me keep time as I wait for another chance.
