deliriumcrow: (Default)
My lungs hurt from smoking too much. My feet hurt from dancing (in heels no less! Until, at least, I took them off) and my ears are ringing from dancing, like the fool that I am, in front of the speakers. And I don't know why I'm sneezing.

But -- it feels good.

I felt the music, breathed it, felt it in every bone and muscle, and saw it colours. Moved to them, made them my own. I've danced better, but I'm out of practice now, not having gone out in ages. (Somehow, my hat managed to stay on. I'm impressed.) It was motion -- not as art or performance, but as life. I didn't really care what I looked like, only the way the curve of an arm, the tensed, waiting crouch of thigh, echoes thte music. that my spine shaped the notes, slithering that rainbow of sound. I could feel every muscle tight coiled in preparation for the next progression --until I could not. Until all sense of body, of self, was lost. I don;t know what I was in those final songs, closed-eyes and exultant, but I was not me. There were wings in that movement, there was something more-than.

Dancing, for me, has always been magic -- not the first few, faltering steps, when, untired but unsteady, the body moves as it thinks it should -- but therein is the problem, in thought, not feeling. It's only at the end, in exhustion, just as much an altered state as intoxication (which I will also not deny, not earlier anyway) when there is that release. It is almost, almost (and I hesitate to use this word but know no other) an orgasm, thought fled and nothing but the senses to control the body, an extacy like none other. Sightless I know the position of everyone around me. My body, and more than my body, control relinquished to music and passion. I am alive when I move, dance, walking has done it before, feeling something like music drumming from the heart of the world and moving to that more than to my own purposes. It is then that I find magic,

I could use magic, I suspect, if I tried. But I don't want to. It's not fear, so much, as the desire to simply touch it, the same way that I learn the texture of tree bark under my fingers, my cheek. It seems almost disrespectful to take it, so I don't, not consciously. I leave it there, known and understood, remembered. Maybe I make it more real. I don't know. the stories say that magic can only exist if you beieve in it, and so -- who knows. It's nearly five in the morning. I'm incoherent and newly restored to my body and its new pains. and I love them.

November 2014

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