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I was summoned by the lady. The lady was different. She was personal yet not maternal. She asked me to close my eyes, so I did, and then she began. After a few moments, she paused and asked me to halt all forms of analysis and critique. She already knew. I had been thinking of the number 75, and 75 was an attribute, so I ceased.

I began to adhere. I could now feel the vibrations of my inner being. With my eyes still closed, dark lavender drifted into my plane of view, and I looked up at the sky. The sky was vast but limited, so I stepped out of the domain and into The Cosmos.

There, in a splendid array, I could see all the planets perfectly aligned with one another. I made my way through the gallery on foot, but I did not need to walk. I was alone and soon others would come, for I planned to spread the word. But at this moment, I did not need anyone. It was just me, the planets, and the infinite horizon.

I stopped for a few moments to observe every planet…each had its own unique blend of color. I smiled in appreciation of the unearthly palettes. Every planet was its own painting…every rock formation was its own sculpture. Overcome by desire to know and to feel more, I reached into one of the planets…I ran my hands through its fine soils and even sipped from a stream. And I did the same with the next and the next and the next and the next.

I could feel the lady grazing my shirt collar with her finger, so I silently acknowledged her. Yes…I agreed. It was. I was. Everything…just…was. And that was it. It required no planning, no understanding, and it did not ask anyone’s opinion. And I didn’t feel the need to offer one.

It was at that moment that I realized that not all had been lost to Earth. I still had an inner and outer being to explore, and so did the rest of the world. Members of other civilizations, of other galaxies, had an open invitation to visit my gallery. Because it belonged to them too. And this invitation did not need to be sent. We would meet when it was time.

I sent a telegram to the Sun…she agreed to restrain when the gallery had visitors…for the exhibit was not in need of climate. In fact, she welcomed the rest. She told me stories of all of the paintings in the gallery…I heard tales in languages that did not exist. She smiled at me and suggested that I be a good host for all the visitors. She had already met them all! I blew a kiss to her and she waved back at me…she wasn’t one for formalities.

And then, shortly after, a few guests made their way to the gallery via space expedition…members of the so-called Third Planet from the Sun. This gallery was the main stop on their intergalactic tour. An old lady with a cane making her way about the exhibition was enjoying herself to no end. She clasped the hand of her elderly husband and told him how much this moment meant to her, this moment that she shared with him. But he wasn’t very verbal…he smiled and then he kissed her on the cheek. That was all that she needed. Her hand quivered delightfully in his.

Soon after, a young man in a suit and a tie holding a briefcase approached the elderly couple. He seemed rushed as he pulled a portable device from his belt and looked at it. ‘Pardon me, Sir and Madam…what time were we told to re-join the other members of our expedition? And what time does the gallery close?’

The elderly lady, without turning toward the young man, looked off into the distance and smiled.

‘Young man…do forgive me…I haven’t any earthly idea’.

Time, as it turns out, is a concept unknown within The Cosmos. Its manifestation is exclusively earthbound. ~Mark Simon

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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.

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