it’s all the dance

“I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly; "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." ~ Alice in Wonderland

The Beloved has been dancing again.

Red poppies, roaming rivers, drunken bears kissing.

Inside the houses ablaze with light people seem not to notice.

The Beloved does not give up and lovingly dances their language.

Translucent tears, vibrating cell phones, a fascination with masks.

Inside the burning homes people believe the masks to be real.

They do not join the choreography on hand in playful character.

They are afraid to lose themselves in the dance.

So they wear the masks, ignore the flames, pretend to forget.

Look, we have become personae in the theater of self!

The Beloved dances, for it’s all his dance.

The cultivation and the maintenance of a mistaken identity requires effort.

One must not adore flowers nor the beauty of grief or exuberant joy.

One must above all not merge into the Dance, the Dancer, the Dancing.

This explains abrupt behaviors, the past, the future, and insensitive words.

We are so terribly afraid. Afraid to die. Afraid to be free. Afraid to love.

Still, the sweet-sooted ground inside shattered rooms tickles our feet.

Music pours out the windows, blossoms stream up to the stars.

Even the tightness in our hearts opens so gladly into the parched earth.

A death of sorts, can you feel it, but liquid like water, quenching thirst.

We cannot forget, no matter the effort, for it’s all the Dance.

Do you see? nowhere the Beloved dances not.

Melt slowly into your dearest question: what is it that you desire most?

What Is it you seek amid the ruins of your self?

Move ever so gently when you tear off the mask.

The Beloved is glad to see you and, hear, she laughs you are laughing.

She says you look like an apple and gently peels off the skin of your face.

You have fallen from the theater’s biblical trees into God’s arms.

There is not much left to do now, nothing to know, have, or want.

It’s still a bit strange to dance without clothes, without craving, isn’t it?

It’s still a bit strange to see through the script of the world’s fear.

Somewhere a heart like a vortex dissolves in a river.

But you are no longer there.

Can we sit quietly together?

For the Dance. The Dancing. This?

credit: hulki-okan-tabak | unsplash