My Ballerina

Arrested by grace; a shudder of pain and pulchritude as she treads upon broken glass, head held high. Delicate limbs amplify the fragility in contrast to the strength of her pounding legs. With her palms outstretched, she offers a body to the world, knowing that it cannot touch her in this moment.

With the appearance of prowess, each movement flows into the next. From the fluid lift of an arm to the thrust of her weightless structure, balanced upon narrow toes, her patient apathy for the rising symphony is increasingly obvious. The progression is effortless. She does not see the audience. She does not hear the music. There is but one command: to annihilate fear, and, by art, she has succeeded. At last, blissfully free, and nothing could ever touch her again.

Her skirt flies about carelessly in a rush of lucent auburn; it serves as a heroic tribute to the playful autumn leaves beyond the theater’s embrace. She experiences a piercing veneration for the stage as it supports her prancing feet, a veneration for the air, as it whisks by, graced by an elevated face, and a veneration for the lights in their illumination of nude skin, burning with an unquenchable fire.

The warmth, the happiness which surrounds her and holds them captivated, comes from a single, genuine love: her self-esteem. The introverted understanding that she is her own person, and that, no matter what hardships lay in wait, no matter what they do to her in the years to come, or what trials may subject her mind, she has something that they cannot steal. For how could she feel anything but exalted, being what she is, with a vision for the future? A vision that is hers, and hers alone.

They may take her home, her clothing, her possessions in the night, but they may not take her reason, her ability, or her pride.

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1 Response to My Ballerina

  1. Brian Faulkner says:

    You present a diamond and bring it to life, rare and radiant—and no one owns it! Beautiful, sharp writing.

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