Moving slowly, swaying, each beat saltating off my hips. These moments are what I crave. For many others it would be the gentle wind caressing their cheek as they walk by or the grains of sand indulging the crevices of their toes as they stroll down beach. But for me, dancing was an art form, an expression or suppression of emotions, where you could be wistfully whisked away into an idyllic realm.
I opened my eyes and realised where I was. The walls so familiar, ten years with the same off pink and peeling paint. Days leave behind not memories but jaded feelings. My thoughts lead me away and as I try and reprimand myself I head towards the fridge. I took the strongest thing that I could get. And as I felt the distasteful liquor drain down my throat, I knew I was gone. My face fell hard against the varnished wooden floor and that was the last thing I felt that night.
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