As the snow continues to fall on the greenery around me, on this day of May 23rd 2013, I reflect, as I often do, on images that flash within my mind. From comforting faces, to alluring facades I allow each image, wether frightfully real or beautifully delusional to flash like the light we witness before the capturing of an image in the dark. One image that continues to waver in and out of my vision is that of a dancing woman in the snow, skirt flying as the cold wetness fails to perturb her from her form. I am currently listening to Kind of Blue, the seminal album by Miles Davis, and the riding of the cymbal is in time with the ladies feet, as her movement and curves delight in the white light reflected off the new and heavy snow. It is clear that the snow shall melt very soon, leaving the grass oddly greener and the landscape a little less scorched.
Living in the mountains for the short period of time I have has allowed me to come to terms with the beauty of past landscapes, from the rolling prairies, to the dense and seemingly lifeless desert. I miss the long and white beaches of my childhood, and the hot pounding sun during the months of summer in which all life is in a form of hibernation, or at the least, a retreat from everyday reality. Yet, in all these landscapes, I see a young woman in a dress dancing to the rhythm of the music I am currently listening to. Her shape, her hair, her clothing, and her mannerisms change as if each part of my memory is deserving of a different dancer with a different skill of movement, each perfectly representing that moment in time. Although the romanticism which creeps within myself is but a failure of my grip on reality, I adore holding onto those moments of wonderful delusion for I do not break hearts, nor is my heart broken and fractured by the everyday instances of which I cannot control.
Once again she dances, but in this instance I am seeing not the world before me but of the world I want to see, and that I shall keep secret; although I see many futures before me they all waver and mould depending on the events that shall happen, as it should be. In my youth I do not cling to a singular dream or goal but shift and meld to the world before me, allowing myself to dream not of one thing but of all the paths that I am allowed to walk, even the ones that I abhor but may one day adhere to. Indeed she dances wonderfully and she dances truly, the perfect representation of all that I have had, currently possess, and one day shall hold. So I shall let her dance, and I shall enjoy the timing of her movements and the abstraction of her existence and allow her to entertain me as she always has, with a flourish of her skirt and a humble spin to the heavens.
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