All it took, was a single night, to bring it all crashing back. That world of black and white; that world of just is, no if, no maybe; that world that spun on an axis of feel, being at one with what went on inside, or rather, the expression of what was not, and yet was.
It was not a figment of my imagination when my feet started on its own riposte to the rhythm of the night, my arms, a repartee to the inexplicit ubiquitous beat. The recollection of it all was a crash and burn. The painstaking effort to create and wear the painted mask of glitter, the colourful costume, the precipitant anxiety attack that hits and leaves one shaking, the quick changes backstage or makeshift backstage when there is the absence of one, and most of all, the persona one has to assume and leave oneself behind once passing the curtains, or the proscenium in Peking opera, the distinct demarcation between the front and backstage, a point of no return.
Once out there, it is like stepping on the edge, for one never knows when one would fall off, very much like a tightrope walk at times, and it is a very long way down the abyss once one falls. There is so much control required in the delicate balance, yet there is also the need for loss of control, to delineate an effortless fluidity till there is no form to one's structured being, to vent and depict that supposed mutable energy till one can be contorted beyond lines and shapes, almost cutting off one's breath. At that very point, is an existing historic split second of a sublime moment where one lives to dance, and at the same time, dances to live.
Not to be left out, is the erratic aftermath. The aches in every possible, and impossible, place on the human anatomy, the ecstasy and satisfaction if every move was in perfect execution and at precise clockwork, the capricious disappointment and frustration in the incident of a screw up. Reminiscence of the blood, sweat and tears from the neverending gruelling fives, sixes, sevens and eights, of floorwork that leaves blisters so bad bandaids ain't enough to cover it all, of ecchymosis so black and blue it is painfully hideous. Little wonder why it is said that one can tell a dancer by the ugly feet. Correction, fugly feet. Not to mention the duck waddle, or the penguin walk.
And so when the lights come on, it is back to where it was; it is indeed, a point of no return, for there really is, and can be, no turning back. There can be no mistakes, frowned upon so much it is a taboo. Even if... the show goes on... it has to go on... In the halcyon stillness of surreal serenity... it is the freedom of expression... done my way...