It’s been a month, perhaps, and the feeling has dulled somewhat, like a previously-salted wound that’s finally scabbed over. But poke and prod, the way I’m doing right now, and salted blood bubbles up, trickles over and burns red and briny trails down skin.
When did I start dancing? Twelve, thirteen years ago? When did it become this important? When did I stop dancing for others, when did it become more than class and timings and marks, when did it become mine, mine, and practice and give-and-take and rehearsals?
And I feel like this.
Like a little girl in a rushing train with window bars too big for her, like a little girl staring at beautiful things that she would have liked. Like a little girl whose choices have been made for her.
But I am the young woman who has made her choices, and “not-a-dancer” is who she is.