Twirling

It is finally the quiet time of night. No loud voices or many people crammed into a single room.
There is beauty in that, but it is not as beautiful as the quiet. The solitude. The stillness.

I would have liked to be a dancer when I was small.
I remember when I was younger, I’d go barefoot onto the black pavement of my driveway, under the porch light hanging next to the second-story window, and I’d twirl.
Not gracefully, but with a soft freedom only unfiltered dreams possess.

Just like when I run. Not on the elliptical at the gym — although it does improve my figure and make my legs strong.
But in the cool nighttime air with the uneven sidewalks that hurt my ankles as it disappears.
Absolute freedom. Freedom AND permission to move. To feel.

 

I enjoy physical movement. It makes me feel strong and able and nimble.
A gift that is best enjoyed in youth. Yet the youth squander it. I squander it.

I’ve tried to like yoga but it really isn’t the same.
I like the POWER of movement, not the lithe stretching.

My biceps are shriveling up and my thighs are losing their strength.
I get winded climbing two stories worth of stairs at work.
I’ve lost my drive to workout and given in to vice and immobility.

I’m stationary and hating it. It needs to change.

 

I’ve also always liked horses and water.
And long walks, especially in falling autumn sunlight.
And with these chilly weather-confused days as of late, I could easily cultivate that imagery — make it a beautiful slice of reality.

And still I don’t. Because I’m really good at excuses and manipulating myself.

I want to make that change.

 

I want to make everything change.

 

because lately I’ve wanted to hold that soft white shirt and mend the tiny tear in it with little, hopefully even stitches.
Stitches I’m not sure I can make … but I like the idea of making them.
Not with my machine but with my hands.
My hands feel very useless lately, perhaps that is why.
And still I don’t because I feel apprehensive and out of place.

 

Dustin has been burning candles lately while I’m there.
The scent of them fills the room and time-travels me back to the apartment.

I sigh inwardly with longing.

Why I made the decisions I made, barring the obvious emotional instability, is completely infuriating, frustrating, painstaking for me.
But the past is a dead end.

 

So I’m going to trudge forward.

 

Twirling.

 

love.
 

 

 

ps. I blame a lot of things on not having my own "space".
I will not banish that mindset.
However, maybe my challenge is to find my space in the absence of space.

 

Only God knows for now.