Throwback: Waltzing to the Tune of Rhetoric

Written September 7, 2010

A dark series of squiggles make their way down and across the page, in that order. Cheap poetry and lame jokes are the order of the day.

For once the silence has retreated and is content to watch from the top row of the bleachers. For once there's no raining on the court while the ball's in play.

There's a rose that lies at the back of my locker, wilted and fading away. It's a rose I don't expect to see in bloom again. It's a rose I've put aside, but one I cannot bear to throw away.

Perhaps I should consign it to the bonfire I've made in my backyard, out of all the relics from the past. Perhaps keeping it in my locker is dangerous, for it might bloom again. Roses such as this one have been known to bloom more beautiful than before, long long after they withered away into nothing more than thin brown sticks and faded and detached petals. And in my excitement, I might just reach out and grab it again, forgetting the thorns. And next time around, I might get the thorn embedded so deeply in my finger that I would never get it out. And the pain would never ever go away.

Sometimes after a tiring day, when I fall back into bed, I find myself not alone. I close my eyes and allow myself to fade away. I find myself in the middle of the waltz that constantly weaves itself through the background of all my dreams. The music waits behind the wings, waiting for the curtains of my eyes to fall. And then as I start to breathe again, I hear it begin to play, and I dance my heart out on the secluded stage. Away from the eye of the critic, the judge, the audience and the spectators.

I hear them waiting with bated breath, the only thing separating us being this thin veil of secrecy afforded by the curtain of sleep. And for this I'm thankful... for these few moments of the waltz, for it's all that keeps me sane anymore.

Sometimes I turn around and open that door I closed for good. I peep into the past I love, into the gallery where everything waits. Waiting patiently in the dark, waiting and gathering dust. Waiting for the day I open that door again for good, and let the past back into my life.