The Weight of emptiness - dancing with the Mystery

The dice have been find!

I'm dark matter,

mystery,

timeless line.

I'm disagreement and misunderstanding,

doubt and silence,

nuisance,

pleasure.

Questions and more questions.

Corridors only I know.

I'm extreme,

resilient.

Collisions and ruptures,

I open craters.

Every night, I would put on headphones and turn up Tchaikovsky's volume just to deafen me with the symphony that rang so loudly it rocked my brain, wishing to reverberate my memories until I brought them to the surface in vivid dreams.

Like a dandelion that hangs in the air in the verdant fields,

driven by the refreshing breeze,

On and backward on its lightness and delicacy,

I was floating around the stage.

And though it was divine to be able to let my thoughts flow and my imagination take me where I wanted to be, the bouncing effect ravaged me. Without music, dreams, and poetry, I even woke up "well", that is, conforming to the idea that I could be as happy as a bird with broken wings.

I wasn't me in physical form.

I was the music that filled the air with its sentimental notes

I slid, being the anger that the melody conveyed...

Then the calm that the symphony evoked.

The pain that the play expressed!

Until I remembered that, for ten years, I hung, perfectly, between the innocence and grace of the white swan and the malice and sensuality of the black swan, but, in the last ten years, the closest I got to art was feeling in the skin the strength of the performance of those who live trapped inside their flesh.

And even though I wasn't alone in that show, the moment was too sublime to see anything...

I didn't see or hear the crowded audience.

I just felt and repeated the movements that would transmute me to what I didn't even know how to describe,

That made me who I was and loved so much to be.

Remembering that made me hate the idea of still being human. As a result, I was dominated by a deep sadness that prevented me from getting out of bed even to eat. When that happened, all my effort focused on breathing, but it was still suffocating.

Ten years means three thousand and a few more days, which, if you look, does not seem so terrible and catastrophic. It's relative. For example, when someone is sentence to prison, they can be happy if the sentence is only three thousand days, assuming that the crime committed was something heinous like a murder or something like that.

I wondered about it regularly and concluded that I would be happy if they told me that in three thousand days and a few, I would be free again. That's because my days dragged on like sparks from an eternity.

Perpetually doomed.

Still, in the darkness that precedes the sunrise, in a colossal effort I got up, beating my own body. The shoulders weighed tons and more tons; I slipped on my gray slippers and put my faded robe over my heavy pajamas; I walked in devious steps through the wooden floor of that old house.