Step to the Beat of My Heart
Elle danse sans cesse.
There she is:
Incisive, indigo eyes, storming with fury and swirling with vehemence rarely seen in such small and seemingly lackluster vessels. These are the eyes of a being collapsed inside themselves, eyes of an entity from which nothing escapes, but in which everything is preserved.
Long, honey blonde curls, falling over sleek shoulders and down a svelte, willowy back. Hair that is simple, but not plain, hair that is pretty, yet not quite beautiful. It doesn’t glisten in the sun, doesn’t cascade like a waterfall - but it is there: the hair of a individual mostly content, but not completely happy.
Smooth, slender legs, thin but muscular, descending towards the ground with a scarce, mystical grace that fascinates all who watch. And a good many do watch; a good many pay to come and watch these pale limbs twist and flitter about melodically, silvery chords and brass zephyr voices shaping their every movement, painting a spellbindingly surreal watercolor on the canvas of a stage. These legs, attached to two equally accomplished feet, are her heart, her soul, her essence - the source of her life.
Yes, there she is, this dark-eyed, flaxen-haired dancing girl, with a body that is continually moving and a heart that cannot keep pace with its own beating. There she is, this curiously quiet, oddly fascinating, and strangely hypnotizing creature whose fantastical qualities seem to contest the fact that she is real. But she must be real. Though hard to believe, she has to be real, because she is Aurora - because she is Aurora Henry, the dancing girl.
Incisive, indigo eyes, storming with fury and swirling with vehemence rarely seen in such small and seemingly lackluster vessels. These are the eyes of a being collapsed inside themselves, eyes of an entity from which nothing escapes, but in which everything is preserved.
Long, honey blonde curls, falling over sleek shoulders and down a svelte, willowy back. Hair that is simple, but not plain, hair that is pretty, yet not quite beautiful. It doesn’t glisten in the sun, doesn’t cascade like a waterfall - but it is there: the hair of a individual mostly content, but not completely happy.
Smooth, slender legs, thin but muscular, descending towards the ground with a scarce, mystical grace that fascinates all who watch. And a good many do watch; a good many pay to come and watch these pale limbs twist and flitter about melodically, silvery chords and brass zephyr voices shaping their every movement, painting a spellbindingly surreal watercolor on the canvas of a stage. These legs, attached to two equally accomplished feet, are her heart, her soul, her essence - the source of her life.
Yes, there she is, this dark-eyed, flaxen-haired dancing girl, with a body that is continually moving and a heart that cannot keep pace with its own beating. There she is, this curiously quiet, oddly fascinating, and strangely hypnotizing creature whose fantastical qualities seem to contest the fact that she is real. But she must be real. Though hard to believe, she has to be real, because she is Aurora - because she is Aurora Henry, the dancing girl.
♠ ♠ ♠
Très bizzare d'un conte, mais, je l'aime. J'observerai où cette histoire ira. Et, vous n'inquiétez pas, cette ne sera pas tout dans le Français. Au revoir, je vous aime tous!