I walked through the backstage paraphenalia of sensory stimuli and relaised 'this is what I want to do'.
My footsteps echoed romantically, a whole world blooming around them. I felt as if a presence lay behind me, but this wasn't like being stalked. Indeed, my footsteps were always the loudest, my constant amongst the chequered mess of bright greens and oranges, where the floor had never known plain style until it reached the deep moonlight of the stage.
It was easy to forget that there were tannoys concealed in the ceiling, little, circular speakers every five metres of so- for our backstage home was not very big. In fact, one could have fitted four green rooms into the adjoining dance studio, so it was logical to understand that not all of us could cram onto the coloured array of seats, not quite sofas. Nevertheless, the tannoys filled these spaces with memories- that's exactly what they appeared to be: the voices within my head repeating without.
I would wander from the performing place, torn bare in under ten seconds, to that certain green room in multicolour, ready to remove the dress, but the time would not remove itself from me, for every second counted down to the emptiness, with a television revealing the coming scenes.
Every footstep had a voice; sound behind me, sound in front of me. Polyphonic like echoes, I was living in surround sound, as every footstep kindly reiterated from heels and a polkadot dress. I was lifted into those clouds of music; I, in a bubble, but open to let the world change in its place, utterly around me.
This was where I was meant to be, with four screens, various audible and visual links, a blink of reality's eye, even when the living stage was barer. There, with the present in each footprint, it enveloped me so prettily.
There was no way to remove my own soul from the dance it had played into- yet it would happily let the disease paralyse me here and now. Here with its mellifluous nature, its odd colours part of my own nature now, too. Those colours of career bliss.