This has become a bit of a running joke, the Manic Dance Party For One. Long evenings spent dancing myself into exhaustion to music that I can't seem to make quite loud enough. It usually starts innocently enough, a little music to help banish the blues, chase the loneliness that is always lurking just out of sight. The first notes stream forth, the rhythm strikes a cord deep within my core, my body moves, my mind lets the music replace all thoughts. I dance. I dance wild and free, with no thought of dignity or self control. I revel in the natural rhythm of my body, feel pleasure in my movements, sensuality guiding my muscles. Hips, thighs, shoulders moving in synchronicity, supple and strong. Arms flowing, hands orchestrating moves or caressing my fluid body. I move. I am moved.
It begins innocently enough, a distraction, a spirit boost, just a dance. But sometimes a dance is not just a dance. My dance is another weapon in my arsenal. My dance controls demons, quiets doubts, and holds abject loneliness at bay. I dance when I am alone because I am alone. Music becomes my cherished companion, a friend from the past, a temporary distraction. Sometimes dancing is the only way I have to stop the crying. When I dance, my body is the boisterous Extrovert, the lonely Introvert removes herself from the dance floor, ever the wallflower.
There are times when the music feels scrambled, my brain cannot seem to make sense of the patterns. It becomes just so much noise. I close my eyes, cradle my head in my hands to quiet the chaos, let my body feel the pulse of the bass, the thrust of guitar, the pounding of drums, ignore the unintelligible ramblings in my brain, and regain my rhythm. What begins as just one more song will extend into an hour, or two, or three. Dancing with no concept of time. Just dancing until either I am too exhausted to continue, or the demons are finally quieted. I will dance unawares, until I smell my solitary dinner scorching. I dance until the aforementioned scorched dinner is cold and congealed. I dance until what is left of my rational brain is telling me I have to stop, have to eat, have to sleep. I am like the little dancer in The Red Shoes, dancing until I drop.
Sometimes dancing is all I can do to regain my sense of balance, a fragile inner peace. Dancing is my own personal war against abject loneliness. When I dance I am not alone, my mind is peopled with memories of my youth, of simpler times, of easier times. I dance because I have to. I dance because I can. Manic Dance Party For One is usually the best party in town. And so I danced tonight, scorched my dinner, and will sleep alone but with memories of the music to lull me to sleep.