- I love you. I whisper to her. Her body floating in my arms in rhythm with mine strains painfully, like a spasm. She slips out of my arms and hugs me like a scared hedgehog. My heart is beating painfully, not from the effort, but from emotion to perfection. That's it. Even wounded, as now, it is a glorious moment, solidified with time. I contemplate her before I can feel anything in the face of her disorder. But the pain emitted through the pores and not necessarily through the tears, grips me and brings me back to earth. - What’s going on? I ask her. I can see her crying as children sometimes cry with boundless pain, unwarranted by their minor pains, tears flowing non-stop. I am trying to stay with her and not to become an observer again, not to get lost as happened earlier many times in the desire to admire her without thinking of her as a human being. - What’s in it with? I’m asking her again. She looks up at me, and all I see is the wounded swan, her long neck raises at a sign of a devastating question. She’s so dined on dance that sometimes even her moments as a woman are pictures of a gem of purity. I whisper to her unwittingly, forgetting her pain. - That’s how you have to raise your head on stage, not here, but I understand that the gesture once made goes into a harmony of the world. ‘You don’t love me.’ she says. Even louder than her words, her broken body at my feet gives me the measure of her pain. I’m freaking out. I’ll pick it up. - Don’t I love you? I don’t love you? My words are insufficient. I’ll let her in my arms and surround her with her body in flight. - I know. That’s what I understand when we dance you’re mine, my mate, then you love me, but later, in real life... She whispers and stops. Tears again catch dripping down his face. - For us, this is real life; you have to understand. - I’m a woman; I’d like you to let me smile always—-at home, outside home. I stop her with a gesture. - Then love isn’t whole; it’s just the shadow of true love. - I’m a woman. She says it again. - No! I’m almost screaming! - You’re the woman, you’re the coronation of your gender. The one and all together... And in you rests the essence of all who have been and who will come. - I live, I eat, I sleep, I can have children. - It’s not essential. Only in dance our love is full and fulfils us, our destinies. Otherwise, we are anonymous. - What’s going on? Her question catches me in the air; it seems to me that way I can explain it better. - To become…(I continued telling her keeping my body in flight.) Some spend long years in the wilderness, some hide at the end of the world and grieve, suffer to death. Don’t you see what we've got in the two of us? Instead of suffering and penance, we are given the dance. The faces of the flying angels read nothing but the purest ecstasy. Like them, we are asked to provide ourselves where we are happiest. Our fulfilment can come in joy if we find the perfect flight, in circles, from which we will not return. We will rotate until both of us become and remain our love of offering to the world.
