Personal Rituals by Miss E.

Personal rituals. The things we hold onto that keep us from never having been.

There are days which blend into a sameness, where half-forgotten things crawl, gather, and a vague restlessness chokes the air. The eyes go blind. The fingers grasp for yellow straws of normalcy. Whatever normal means.

I mute my screams and photoshop my memories.

I need to breathe again.

I love dance. The studio, the music, filling the emptiness within, without. The old, familiar aches of the back, neck, the bruises on the shin and ankle. Etching the song into space with the lines of the body. I live pain, without its suffering. I take pleasure, despite its bitter reality.

Somewhere, a cage sits silent. And a broken-winged bird died, dreaming of flight.

The music flows, whispering life into rose-leaf memories and stillborn futures.
The emptiness, it becomes a channel.

Expression?
Catharsis.

For the things beyond words, the body speaks for me.

And in that heartbeat between notes, within songs.

I burn once more.