Dancing appeals to me, and I couldn't entirely explain why. It just feels good. The way I move, I believe, is largely what got me the performance part I'm still perhaps the proudest of. I may not have done much in the way of formal dance, but get me on a dance floor and actually moving... I feel amazing, even if I don't look it. I always secretly hope that I'm one of the people that others enjoy watching, despite the lack of props or anything. I've not gone dancing in way too long. But I digress.
I don't feel like I'm lying when I say that I'm meant to perform in some capacity. That I'm meant to dance. My goal of performing on the street on the first day of Spring may be overly ambitious, but even if that timing doesn't come true, it will eventually. I'm still "reality" minded enough to accept like I likely need a more typical "9-5," but that doesn't mean my life won't be creatively focused. It can't not be, that isn't who I am.
This feels more like the truth, more like my genuine self than I've felt in a long time. Depression isn't me. It may be something that affects me, but it isn't me. Letting the crowd push me down a path that isn't my own (or trample over me and I trip over my feet on a wrong path for me) isn't right. I still suffer. I still get down. I still have days like most of today where I just feel defeated and sad and want to stay in bed.
But it isn't me, any more than it'd make sense to define myself by how I am when I get a nasty virus. It certainly doesn't give an indication of who I should be.
The story of my life has been filled with wastes and sorrows and pain and failure.
The pen is still tainted with bad ink, but it is slowly being washed out and replaced by pretty new ink that suits me...
I'm working on a new chapter.