I find it difficult to cast my cares. To close my eyes, stick my tongue out and taste the rain. To slip on those yellow heels and dance like all the world is my music.
Not in my imagination of course. There I am a winged bird.
But in reality, I ache to let go. To wall paper my photographs all over a feature wall. To buy the pea green dress one inch too short. To tell my mother what I'm really thinking. To trust someone enough to let them near. To whisper those things that have happened in my past and then set them sailing out to sea on paper lanterns.
These things are not in my imagination. They are apart of the skin I wear and the reason, I suppose, that I am not yet brave enough to shed it. It would be like losing apart of myself.
And then I think...
perhaps that's the point.
What about you? Do you Dance?