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UNICORN ORIGAMI
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biography 
C'est Victoria. Et vous?Je crois dans l'amour de Dieu. Mon adresse e-mail est: torywood@gmail.com et mon facebook est ici. Regardez-moi voler. Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction. |
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story of a girl - NineDays
vendredi, novembre 26 She dances through the streets, oblivious to the crowds around her. All she wants to do is dance... all she knows is the music... she's just caught up in the love of it all. The music has touched her heart and she has succumbed to it's seduction. She has lost herself but it doesn't matter. She was made for this. The people turn as her footsteps grace their paths. It's rush hour and everyone's rushing to work. Or at least they're supposed to be. Time stands still. Everyone stops to watch. It's as if a spotlight is shining upon her from heaven. If there's a God He must be happy Its just 8:23. but no one wonders what this girl is doing dancing in the city. It seems so natural. So natural that the people begin to feel awkward. What had they been in such a hurry for? Come and join the dance. It's as if the steps were calling, beckoning them to join. Yet she never once falters. She just goes on, lost in the dance. They just want to dance. There's just something about it that draws them to join in. The steps aren't difficult. In fact there don't seem to be any set steps at all. The movement isn't all that mesmerizing either. Rather un-cool at times. But there is a sense of freedom. of fullness of life. of Love. A briefcase drops to the ground. A rude interruption to the still silence that had taken over the street. It snaps open and the papers are caught in the blowing wind. The owner leaps up in shock and quickly squats down to gather whatever he can. He lowers his head. How could he have let go of his briefcase. Now everyone must be staring at him. He clumsily packs his things in and turns to leave. He can't join the dance. He can't even stay to watch. There are too many people looking. He's too self conscious. But no one is watching. Their eyes are still fixed on the girl. They watch as the papers fly across her path and even into her face. A faint sense of despair. Will she stop? She does not. She laughs and moves on. It's as if those papers were part of it all. She slows down. She stops. She closes her eyes and waits. Everyone's hearts skip a beat. She breathes. Everyone breathes with her. And she continues. The music in her soul seems to penetrate into their hearts that they can hear it too. Suddenly she turns a corner and disappears from sight. The music fades. A sense of loss hits the people. They turn to each other not really knowing what to do. The wonderment still lingers. Someone turns to leave. That inappreciative soul. A wave of awareness suddenly overcomes them and they realize what a strange situation they are in. Everyone's standing still on a busy street. Another person clears his throat and walks on. More people turn and get on their way. Soon all is restored. Or is it broken again? The thought still burns in their heads. What if they had joined the dance. Maybe life wouldn't be as empty as it is now. Surely there's more to life than the drudgery they've got now. Maybe there is a reason for our existence. Maybe that was it. There's too much to leave behind. Everything familiar. The security of living off their own work. The company of friends. Especially those who just laugh in mockery of that unusual girl. The lifestyle. And what about those years spent to get them there? It's too much. It's impossible they tell themselves. Impractical. A dream. A brief moment of insanity. Beautiful though it may be. This is the real world they live in. The truth is they are afraid of losing control. To be led by a music that comes from a source beyond themselves. To hear a tune in their souls and to be moved by it. No. And the worst part that they cannot accept is that it's not about them. It's all about the music. It's all about the dance. They move for the glory and expression of the dance. They become an instrument. A signpost for something greater. Yet. Maybe that's what they were made to do. Never has a person seemed more perfect. Maybe they are just made to be signposts. No... can't be. And she just keeps on dancing. vic @ 11:25 PM |
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