Yin and Yang

anonymous



Everything was still but the dust particles drifting lazily through the air, tangled in the last golden rays of light. All was silent, and the silence was extremely loud. They would not speak. They would not break the sacred temple of pure, unabashed nothingness. They would not disturb the air which grew heavy with sweet expectations and anticipation. Only their breath stirred the dense, chalky air. Even now, before the performance, every move was carefully calculated, with a precision that wouldn't interrupt the syrupy-sweet atmosphere.

And as she stretched her foot up into the air, she focused on the wooden floor, eyes intent on the floor's fine grain. It was well-worn, but its wear only made it more resilient. Like a fine wine, the floor had only gotten better with age and use. Like the floor, she was matured. Over a decade of training and practice had brought her to this moment, this culmination of effort and success. She would waltz onto that stage and execute every move perfectly. She tried to convince herself of what everyone knew was true, her technique was the best. She tried harder than everybody else. Like her practice tape at home she chanted to herself: hard work will get you where you want to go. Hard work is enough. It is enough to mend the slumped posture and two left feet. But it did not make up for her shattered confidence. She stretched the foot higher, pushing it past the realm of possibility. The muscles at the nape of her neck grew taut as her ears caught the withering applause that wound its way past the thin walls of the warm up room. It was almost time.

She sat on the ground amid a cloud of tulle. The fine, delicate fabric splayed across her thighs and knees was a true testament to beauty and form and function. The dress was not made for comfort, it was made for beauty. And like the dress, she was born to perform. She could dance before she could crawl, and when she finally learned to walk, her first steps held the promised grace of a child bred from a line of dancers. It was not the skill, mastered from years of training, that made her the best dancer. It was the ease, the air of confidence that permeated the air and drew all wandering eyes to her perfect form. It was the challenge in her eyes and the playful arrogance in her smile that seemed pull the audience towards the edge of their plush red-velvet seats. It was pure, raw talent that helped her give a performance that would leave the audience breathless in wonder. They wouldn't notice that she had missed the first beat; it wouldn't matter. As long as it looked good, nothing mattered. And she always looked good. All at once, it was time. She pushed down the sudden quell of butterflies that erupted at the base of her stomach. Talent was enough.