The Illusion of Control: An Excerpt in Creative Writing
Lights. Colors. For one small moment my spinning world stands still. I feel breathless, weightless, and beautiful. The tension in my muscles as they flex and release brings a slight sweat to my brow, but I don't mind. It feels good. So, so good. In this world where I seem to have so little control, I relish the sensation of knowing I have control of this. Of me.
My partner stands tall. A rock that further solidifies my control. We spin together mimicking the thing that is my life, but this is better. This I know I'll excel at. The music swells and I am swept away into the feeling that I could be beautiful all the time, an immortal flower forever blooming in agonizingly beautiful grace. Perhaps I could go on dancing and never look back on the life that is mine, trade one colorful top for another. But as the spinning slows, the music dies and my partner, my rock, disappears with it. The lights go out, the colors fade to grey, and I am left alone with a pair of broken dance shoes and the barest hope that it will all come back again.