Dancing Alone (by Lu Kelly Davis)
She woke, hearing the sounds she hears every morning as she emerges from the heavy blanket of dark stillness that overcomes her when she finally allows her mind to rest. Her world was a noisy one, surrounded by the sounds of cars, trucks, motor vehicles of all sorts, including those of the emergency variety and law enforcement types.
How often has she craved a silent world and can never find one, so she eliminates as much sound as possible in her every day life. Still there is one sound she can never eliminate. The one that is in her head, in her ears, the constant noise that sounds like a million cicadas.
The cicadas never cease their mind numbing cadence, to no longer hear them she has to turn the volume up on whatever she is listening to, whether it is music, a show, a movie, or the voices in her head.
But today, opening her eyes was like viewing a black and white film, where you can hear the sound of the projector humming away and the movement of the film running through the machine, but no other sound comes forth, though you see their lips move, and their bodies shift, and the world flow around them.
She remains in this grey subdued world in order to survive the madness surrounding her every day life. It seeps into her pores, permeates her brain, hardens her heart and muffles her emotions, all while observing the madness that somehow took over her world.
A million shades of grey she never knew existed, intruding upon all she dared to observe, risking her sanity. Hovering on the edge of a precipice so high, it was impossible to see how deep it went. She would lose all sense of self and sanity before she ever hit bottom if she stepped out into it’s abyss. And yet she longed to do just that, where she would no longer feel, no longer ache, no longer dream life’s impossible temptations. So, she welcomed the grey numbness that seeped into her pores and collapses her mind, and freezes her heart.
The cold chill of the numbing ache never leaves her now. It permeates her dreams with nonsensical flashes of another life she has never lived. No matter how hard she tried to find it, that life will never step out into the brilliant daylight, for its existence is just a figment of a worn out imagination.
And so, her movements are repetitive, predictable, and so ingrained, no thought is needed to carry her through her day. There is no risk of damaging her mind, or in awakening her emotions, or in anything reaching the core of her being to disturb what rests there in its depths. She is the embodiment of the walking dead.
Sometimes, a strange, and outlandish thought would work its way into the death chant, only to get lost within the turmoil and ever changing maze, designed to keep wayward thoughts at bay. An endless trap impossible to escape, and forever held in its grasp.
To traverse everyday life, it had to be this way. Observing those around her, was like watching a tragic comedy. There was no doubt of how the last scene would play out and she could no longer observe and maintain hope that it would end differently, while all the others played their part seemingly oblivious as to their part in its demise. She was like an actor in the play, who was now sitting within the audience, all too aware of the script, refusing to play her part, while knowing her refusal wouldn’t change a thing. The only outward sign of her hidden conflict were the tears that flowed unchecked down her cheeks.
She was the dancer who could no longer dance to the tune of the music. Her soul now heard another tune which called to her, and so she would dance the dance alone.
How often has she craved a silent world and can never find one, so she eliminates as much sound as possible in her every day life. Still there is one sound she can never eliminate. The one that is in her head, in her ears, the constant noise that sounds like a million cicadas.
The cicadas never cease their mind numbing cadence, to no longer hear them she has to turn the volume up on whatever she is listening to, whether it is music, a show, a movie, or the voices in her head.
But today, opening her eyes was like viewing a black and white film, where you can hear the sound of the projector humming away and the movement of the film running through the machine, but no other sound comes forth, though you see their lips move, and their bodies shift, and the world flow around them.
She remains in this grey subdued world in order to survive the madness surrounding her every day life. It seeps into her pores, permeates her brain, hardens her heart and muffles her emotions, all while observing the madness that somehow took over her world.
A million shades of grey she never knew existed, intruding upon all she dared to observe, risking her sanity. Hovering on the edge of a precipice so high, it was impossible to see how deep it went. She would lose all sense of self and sanity before she ever hit bottom if she stepped out into it’s abyss. And yet she longed to do just that, where she would no longer feel, no longer ache, no longer dream life’s impossible temptations. So, she welcomed the grey numbness that seeped into her pores and collapses her mind, and freezes her heart.
The cold chill of the numbing ache never leaves her now. It permeates her dreams with nonsensical flashes of another life she has never lived. No matter how hard she tried to find it, that life will never step out into the brilliant daylight, for its existence is just a figment of a worn out imagination.
And so, her movements are repetitive, predictable, and so ingrained, no thought is needed to carry her through her day. There is no risk of damaging her mind, or in awakening her emotions, or in anything reaching the core of her being to disturb what rests there in its depths. She is the embodiment of the walking dead.
Sometimes, a strange, and outlandish thought would work its way into the death chant, only to get lost within the turmoil and ever changing maze, designed to keep wayward thoughts at bay. An endless trap impossible to escape, and forever held in its grasp.
To traverse everyday life, it had to be this way. Observing those around her, was like watching a tragic comedy. There was no doubt of how the last scene would play out and she could no longer observe and maintain hope that it would end differently, while all the others played their part seemingly oblivious as to their part in its demise. She was like an actor in the play, who was now sitting within the audience, all too aware of the script, refusing to play her part, while knowing her refusal wouldn’t change a thing. The only outward sign of her hidden conflict were the tears that flowed unchecked down her cheeks.
She was the dancer who could no longer dance to the tune of the music. Her soul now heard another tune which called to her, and so she would dance the dance alone.
