The Dance
Yesterday. Friday night, bank holiday upcoming on Monday. I find myself in the flat alone, writing fiercely, vomiting through words all those things that were stuck in my head and needed to take form.
I could hear the echo of that music festival in the park nearby, I could hear some guys laughing and drinking in the street, I’ve asked myself, what am I doing here? why I’m not out there having fun? why do I choose to write?
Today. Saturday afternoon, sunny outside, the windows are closed but I can still hearing the music on the back, I’m still alone in the flat. I’ve been all day until now writing, starting the newsletter post over and over again, trying to convey one of the many ideas I wanted to tal about.
I can’t find the words, and when I think I’ve found them I think “Who the hell are you to talk about that?”
I make more coffee, and when I go downstairs is all split on the hob. Remember, you gotta leave the lid of your moka pot open, but you gotta not forget to close it at the very end. And I forgot.
I sweat, I yell, I can still hear the echo of the music in the back. What am I doing here? Why do I write?
And so I realise… I write so I can live.
I write so I can realise I’m not always certain about everything I say. I write so I can face myself in the mirror and question my manners. I write so I can celebrate the good moments twice. I write so I can provide evidence I’m here, and I’m alive.
And I’m here, I’m alive, so I can live, so I can write.
That’s my dance.
*sighs with enormous joy*
Thanks for reading!
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Yours,
H.