Everything around me feels fast and thoughtless. I'm thoughtless, too. I can’t feel my body anymore. I’m so grateful. When I can still feel my body I can still hear my keeper, and when I can still hear my keeper, I can't dance like this.
The Rolling Stones "Under My Thumb" is playing on the jukebox, and it's my favourite song forever from now on. My body that I can see beneath me, but that I can't feel, is moving with a harmonized surrender.
My feet move in shuffles from side to side. My head goes up and down, back and forth. When I lift it up towards the ceiling, I can feel that my face doesn't look how it usually does. I'm not putting anything on. There is a rawness that surrounds me. I notice my hands floating all around. They surprise me every time because I'm not instructing them to go anywhere. They just move.
Everyone I know thinks I'm a good dancer, but I'm not. I'm just a good performer and I've always been very good at faking. Before this summer when I'd dance, I was moving how my keeper told me I should move, how she wanted other people to see me move. It wasn't fun at all, but I used to take comfort in following her orders.
That's my secret.
Well, that's our secret. Nobody knows she exists, except her and I. She's gone now. She’s far away. I told her and her liquid sounds to leave me alone this summer. At first I was worried that I wouldn't know what to do without her. That I'd keep talking to no one in particular, a parrot in sweat pants, asking "Will I be okay?"
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