In his mind he dances.
His body tries, hard; recalls the movements it was supposed to make, but the lax muscles do not exact the willed motions completely. Half, incomplete gestures die at the thought of execution, a bird without wings, bloodied feathers caressing the ground.
In his mind, he dances a tango.
Passionate, loving, his body sings to his muse, his love.
But she is cold as the night. Uncaring, she is an estranged lover to all but his lips.
Powerful movements burst from his mind, energy erupting within, an audience, grand as only those in his imagination -as only his thoughts can conjure up- holds their breath, gasps, sits, waits, watches, applauds him for his splendour, for he is magnificent.
Louder and louder the music resounds through the giant hall.
Sometimes he is alone, and other times, she is there, his dulcet ice-queen, on occasion there are those that watch, with enraptured stares. They are always quiet.
In his minds he dances, and he moves with perfection.
The rhythm of the music sweeps him up into a new world, familiar notes cascade like a waterfall, breaking as they reach their crescendo and the emotions they embed are released within.
Ever so often, he doesnít dance, but he runs, imagines rushed footfalls and the power of muscles, the grace of a cheetah, or the force of a horse in full gallop. Slowly they play out to him, for his imagination lacks in giving them speed, no, they move slowly, like a train that has yet to gain momentum. Straining, struggling, breaking all limits, because there is nothing more beautiful to his mind then the sight of controlled power, a battle of wills and the undeniable victory and loss, which evolve from the struggle.
In his mind he dances, for his spirit is free of all earthly bounds.
Like a train fighting the weight of the heavy metal being pulled down, his brain pulls up, gains speed, finds inspiration and dances, trapped forever.
Release the pressure, up the torque, spread you wings, unfold the graceful instruments of flight to warm the feathers on the summer sky and fly away from reality.
In real life he lies still.
His body tries hard, to overcome the ailments that settle in his bones and eat away at his innards, replacing it with something so profoundly wrong and useless his body appears hell bent on self-destruction.
And that is where it hurts most, not his lungs, which fill with fluids, or the unnatural growths that sprout wherever they find space, or make it, but the fact that this is his own temple crumbling, not by hammers and bombs, bullets and arrows, but by a faulty construction. Maybe, the uncertainty drives him mad.
In real life he lies still in bed, the extent of his abilities.
Cold, ruthless, it takes but a second for the pain, or the uncomfortable flow of fluids to reach his mind and disrupt his musings.
Pain returns, a familiar foe, panic as well, but such darkness has become familiar.
Dying is like drowning, or falling, deeper and deeper, faster and faster, allow for it to happen, grin in the face of destruction and when it is turned into a grimace, just up the morphine. Death always smiles back; lack of skin will do that.
In real life he lies still, and awaits his final hour.
Cynical comedy, a body on display, for the men and women in white to play with, eager to please, they dig their scalpels deep into infected skin.
A battle is being fought, but it isnít anything like that of a running cheetah, or a train grappling for purchase, or a dance of love unconquered.
Instead there is a degrading play going on, with him as the main lead, a sick little game fate has played him. And he is grateful, for he is scared, death may be grinning, but it is laughing at his expense.
In real life he lies still, for his spirit is free of all earthly bounds.