Descent and Ascent

Have I ever mentioned that I once was a ballerina? I used to dance like water. Nothing used to bother my movements. My stride, my step, my every motion. I was motion. I became beautiful when the sway of my dress matched the sway of the lilting piano music. I sang with the bend of a knee, the break of a breath. I used to monologue with my shoulders, with my hips. I was beautiful. I could turn any beat into a flicker of my ankles. I was so beautiful. And then the music became too loud one day. And I lost my rhythm. And then I became a revengeful dancer. I learned to dance to impress. I learned how to make the beat follow me, instead of letting the beat move first. I became dissappointed with my rhythm. I became a simple statistic in a tutu. And I hated what it was. What I was. So I quit. I had grown up so used to quitting: a conversation, a relationship, an evil memory. I was amazing at quitting. So I stopped dancing. It became typical of me to tap my feet in a diner playing jazz music, instead of me swaying my body while I ate pancakes. It became a ritual for me to fake my dislike for moving. I became a tree trunk, when I used to be the leaves. In the past, I was amazing. I was more than amazing. I was something to be seen, to be watched, to be taken into account. I was great, and then I wasn't. But I'm learning again. Now I dance, but it's between breaks at work. I wiggle in the drivers seat when a nice tune starts playing. I bob my head to music from park speakers, and bounce my shoulders when I've got my headphones in at school. I don't ever think I will remember how to do a proper pirouette or tendu, but I am learning to remember how they used to feel. I am finding it easier to sway and slip and dip backwards. I am relearning how to smile when I dance. It is quiet, but it's there now. I am trying. Have I ever mentioned I used to be a ballerina? If I haven't, that's because I'm not anymore. I'm just a dancer.