I feel I've drunk a third from a liter of Red Horse. My eyes display a more languid look, with the dark circles below it highlighting the hazelnut shape of the windows of my soul. A vein at my right temple seem to tick in a beat akin to the seconds-hand of a clock. My body wants to rest, but my soul still does not want to. And my heart which is on a salvo seconds the motion of my apparently cheerful soul.
Hence, I end up moving my fingers in a way that is very familiar: that, when I cannot move a muscle, I cannot hum a tune, I cannot lift a weight, I sit up straight and express the grace of femininity by way of words. And I let my soul go out of its temple and speak to the world that it is true, that it is bold, that it is capable of motion.
I let my soul manifest when I blend words into phrases, phrases into sentences, sentences into paragraphs. The heart that pumps blood to my body stops beating red fluid; its begins cultivating letters and composing words that come into being as I further what I am doing. Every push of my fingers, shift of my hands, and sway of my eyes, my soul dances in joy.
I feel I am asleep, but I am in motion. I am stationary but moving. I sleep while I am awake. My body rests, but my soul and heart does not. Oh, it rests, but manifests rest by way of dancing.
And it is at times like this that I feel I am alive, that I have something to do, that I have a purpose to fulfill.
Yes, in times like this when my soul dances.