razelibrary

You said I was weak. Matter-of-fact. The silence after as unwelcome as truth.

Just in case you feel sorry about it in the future and feel like it's too late to apologise, I'll let you know now that I forgive you.

They say it's the thought that counts. Thanks for showing me what you think.

My name is Razel and I'm a closet dance freak.



I don't frequent clubs because I perceive them as places to be seen and not to express one's self or let it out. Not to mention I need at least two square meters to myself when I dance.

But my music player is filled with disco tunes I play at full blast in my room on a night when there's nowhere to go but something to celebrate (and always, always there is something to celebrate).

The quality of my dance steps is directly proportional to the quality of the alcohol I'm downing. Gold Label, for example, will make me an unstoppable dance floor goddess. Yes I can be pretty awesome (understand that this is my inebriated self looking at the mirror speaking): My body executes movements my mind has yet to conceive.

I can't be trusted with the science, but surely dance is not possible without gravity? Whatever the case is, in my heart, to dance is the most beautiful way to fly.

The candles were lit, the room burned yellow, the music started, they had to go.

*

What preceded was an artless afternoon: A table by the window. Soon there will sit one boy and one girl who, careful to betray their feelings, will mostly look through the colorless glass.

In not meeting each other's eyes, the sounds sharpen. They listen to each other's rhythm, each surprised by the other's attention. No big emotion must let loose.

*

The candles were lit, the room burned yellow, the heart felt hunger, they had to go.