She could still dance. She hadn't danced in quite a while. Life seemed to get in the way.The busy stuff of the day. Not necessarily the important things that should fill up the day. Just busy stuff. Everyone talked about it though. Are you busy? Keeping busy? Busy? As if busy was a purpose in and of itself.
So busy, was a constant cry. It usually meant only that the day filled up with stuff. It meant nothing. It produced nothing. It created nothing. It just filled the hour glass with sand.
But then she remembered she could dance. Dance. Live. Laugh. Have her life be the party she wanted to attend and not the empty room she wanted to escape from.
So, she ripped off the sling supporting her arm…she forgot why she had it in the first place and began to sway. Then step back and forth. Before long she heard the music. Before long she re-entered the dance floor. Before long she realized she loved to dance.
Years later she couldn't figure out why she ever stopped dancing. What was that busy thing about anyway.
Re-enter the dance floor.
An ageless experiment.