The Dancer looked down and observed her toes. She stood still. The orchestra struck its opening and then, after one flick of her little lashes, she slowly lifted her delicate chin and began swimming to the overture. She delightfully endured every note as her body flowed within the symphony. The music was slow, and a plot was nowhere to be found, for no script was needed. So who composed the piece?

Between movements, she would pause and slowly turn her head.  Then, within one motion, her body gracefully rotated to match the direction in which she glanced. And then she would repeat. When the orchestra stopped, she would rest briefly and sit on her favorite wooden chair…she didn’t have any other furniture. She would sip from a bottle filled with colored soda; the words on the bottle were always in Cyrillic or Arabic, but she never noticed.

And this would happen every night for years, decades, centuries, millenniums. Rest, Dance, and Repeat. Rest, Dance, and Repeat. The schedule was the same, but the movements were unrehearsed. And every night, she would dance to a new symphony. She didn’t know where the music came from.  But she never tired of the routine for this was her being…there was no effort. She would rest during the day, and every night she was re-born. The lights would go dim and the orchestra would hit. And then there was Dance.

No one is quite sure when this ritual began, nor will it ever cease. But there was never a mention of an Eighth Day, so how did this mischief come about? It exists within all of us…it is a part of our innate being. It is that which we yearn to express but sometimes cannot.
Dance is a celebration of movement…a Festival of Projectiles in Motion. And it is something that They, whoever they may be, can never take away, for it is our birthright, and the act in its purest form is subconscious…it belongs not in this realm.

Sometimes, late at night, when all seems still, if you listen closely, beneath the howling of the coyote or the harmony of an owl, you will hear the faint hit of an orchestra. And somewhere, perhaps in an abandoned warehouse nearby…sneakers unlaced, wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a faded pink blouse, you will find a Dancer. And her portable stereo is the only orchestra that she knows of.

Every so often, between movements, she stops to sit on her favorite old wooden chair and removes her sneakers so that her feet can rest. She then looks down and observes her toes as she takes sips from a bottle filled with colored soda – the kind that you buy only at an outdoor market…and the words on the bottle are often in Cyrillic or Arabic. But she never notices.