dancing with myself

Dancing is a drug. On a packed dance floor green lazer lights fly past my eyes. The sound from the speakers make my body vibrate. I close my eyes. My body moves on it's own, thinks on it's own, has a life of it's own. I move away from the crowd, in my own world, feeling every beat. A stranger named Marco looks at me and says 'You are the best dancer I have ever seen'.

This is what brings me back time and time again to over crowded clubs. It's not the under dressed girls, expensive drinks, smokey air or men in polyester shirts and too much gel in their hair that get me hot.

Fueled by whiskey and coke my body was warm and my intentions innocent. Aimee and I hit Toronto's club scene with the hopes of dancing til we dropped. And we did.

At three in the morning we were still up on the pedestals sacrificing our bodies to the music.

At three-thirty we were back in my room at residence feasting on available snacks.

I think I was in bed by four.

By nine I was up and showering for work. At Ten-thirty I was walking down Yonge Street, hood over my head, Damien Rice singing to me through my head phones. The sun was so bright it illuminated the cracks in the sidewalk. The music from my discman made the cars move like a chorus. Made strangers sour expressions so understandable, so strangely beautiful. Made the beautiful people remain beautiful, yet their beauty so obviously disposable.

These days my life moves like a soundtrack. There's the upbeat tracks, the slow sad songs; the dance songs. There's always music in my head and I can't seem to stop dancing.

***


My partner in crime and I.