Smiling at grief.” —Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare (via fyeahliteraryquotes)
hitting the floor, suspension, into a continuous flow of movement.
it builds up to that climatic cycle that continues, and the moment i catch my breath is the first time i realize how hard i’m breathing.
in the movement, i can’t feel it. i can’t feel anything but the floor, muscles, and the blood beating. every aspect of the music becomes the dictator. perhaps the only dictator that will bring you any good. drives, and pushes, and stretches the body to limits that look simple, but aren’t.
these are moments that i strive for.
but they’re being robbed from me.
the quiet, small gaps are usually easily overlooked.
but that one moment,
the one time the thoughts just dwindle around their own path-
it’s far too easy for those little wisps to slip into the cracks, and there it goes. river and floods; the world pauses for a moment and is all of the sudden it rushes forward.
the sting, that undeniable moment.
the pain’s there.
then it’s gone.
everything about it,
the emotions that somehow end up in my fingertips when hitting the floor,
and the music filling up my head, pushing aside anything and everything else.
the sweat, sticky to clothes, hair, and anything that it comes in contact with.
the tension, how it provides control and my body starts to shake— it’s struggling. i know i’m pushing myself, and that this is work. it simply must be done.
stretching, reaching and wanting something. most of the time it’s not there, it’s the space. but feeling muscle elongate and knowing that they are simply trying.
soreness in the morning doesn’t always feel great. working through the pain is a part of the process of learning and body awareness, so it must be appreciated. working through the pain is always the best: release, pain, tension and relief all at once. it only makes you stronger.