That Night, He Danced Himself into the Living

He danced with visible urgency, with an inexplicable necessity that was older than he, that was primordial, that was emblematic of a fictional prehistoric society. He danced as if trying–and to no avail–and trying–and to no avail–to exorcise the beatings he was subjected to as a kid. Though his continuum of convulsive movements and aerial jitters lacked technical refinement, he drank from the viscous mead of gods, and therefore, his impromptu choreography held an overflux of authenticity. That night, he danced liberty. That night, he danced suffering. That night, he danced himself into the living.

Am I living authentically?

In the aftermath of my darkest hours, I look around and the glazed glass panels of the door captivate me in their solidity, just as a big pink lollipop being licked by the school’s coolest kid would the forever stranger reading art magazines during breaks.

I realize that the outside is only an opening away.

I realize the arbitrariness of the most fortified borders.

I realize that any enclosed space could feel like a jail cell, as long as you’ve been confined to your solitude.

This morning, once again, I found myself suffocated by an inescapable helplessness. How can I live with the fact that if anything happens to my loved ones who aren’t here, I can’t be there for them?

How do you live with the distance?