I used to be me
Happily weird
Once many moons past, when I was but a twig of a boy and not yet a man. I used to love dancing in the dark of night, lit only by the dying embers of faraway stars and of course the smiling moon. I would sway with the midnight breeze, twirling, turning, twisting and smiling, as the crickets sang their piercing song and the frogs echoed their hunger.
I used to linger for hours and hours until all fell silent and I was nothing but another shadow swaying in the dark. A ghost without a body, a performer without a stage, a soul without a mind, a play without an audience. I would dance till dance I couldn't, until vertigo would knock me into a bed, sometimes mine, sometimes a friend's. Yet the next day, I would rise to dance again, like the sun does every morning, with a joyful smile on my face.
I stopped when the winds of growth blew my way. Suddenly a twig I no longer was, suddenly my little nighttime activity was a thing of horror to new found eyes.
Dance I did no longer in the dark of night lit by the fading stars, because the world I knew, knew not the beauty in my act.
When I was nothing but a twig, no one cared about the odd, the weird, the crazy. But when my limbs grew and tiny bushes claimed the pits under my arms, the smooth plains of my belly and other valleys I shall not name. My art became more than just an act to those once blind, to those who knew not whom I once was.
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