To understand this dance she did, one needed some background information.
An unbelievable quiet set in but she preferred a storm instead. The calm was unsettling and discomforting for her. It didn’t let her think. The blaring music brought back the rush; she shook the floor with her steps. She danced with a passion and a madness. It didn’t send her into a trance. It revoked and revitalised her senses; she danced to reclaim consciousness.
I understood this dance she did. She didn’t like me watching. I peeped from behind the curtains, though. I invaded the private moment she revelled in with her body. I had seen her go through the routines numerous times before. She danced to focus all her energies on the present, the moment and the motions of her body. She used the movements as a means to channel her inner thoughts and externalise them. I understood her need to perform though we never spoke about it. It was, in all probability, a ritual and reminder to break the silence and protest.
She stamped her feet as I wondered how to keep myself connected to my voice. For, I didn’t dance.