From a small inner-city bedroom, the tone of its peeling walls decorated with the sepia faces of dreams, a TV’s blue glow rarely spoke such soliloquies so directly to me.
But, then, he appeared.
It was as if someone, some cosmic being had designed him: sculpted the perfection in his bronze face, molded the softly stunning beauty of his features, constructed the wide width of his shoulders like those of an Olympian swimmer, stolen sketches from Michelangelo and painted the lean, lithe etching of his limbs. My eyes traversed his entirety, the full Gestalt of him. Surely, this was God’s handiwork. I imagined life had to be “easy as a Sunday morning” for him (I was wrong). It would have been enough had he just stood there, being glorious, and allowed us to gaze and gawk at him. His presence appeared to be like that of some magnificent dream standing still.
Oh! But then he danced.
He moved with an emotional fluidity that captured both fire and nobility. He moved as if to prove the perennial gravity of his own existence. He moved as if to showcase the value and worthiness of his humanity. He moved like he was born to improve upon the staid and stuffy quality of ballet, and…
