Make them FEEL.
The final section approaches.
The music strips down—just Summer Walker's voice and a single traditional instrument, the collision of cultures distilled to its purest form. My movements slow, becoming more deliberate, each position held for just a beat longer than expected.
Resolution.
Acceptance.
The peace that comes from finally knowing who you are.
I bring my blades together—crossing them in front of my chest, then raising them overhead. My body rises onto pointe, muscles shaking with the effort of holding the position, sweat dripping from my chin onto the stage floor.
The music fades.
The final note hangs in the air.
And I am still.
Completely still.
Arms up.
Blades crossed.
Balanced on the tips of my toes.
Fighting to tame my breath, to control the heaving of my chest, to look like I could hold this position forever even though my body is screaming for release.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
The silence is deafening.
Absolute.
Not a sound from the audience. Not a whisper, not a rustle, not even the sound of breathing.
Did I fail?
Was it not enough?
Did I push too far, try too hard, expose too much?—
I lower my arms.
Slowly.
Gracefully.
Sheath my blades at my back.
Turn to face the darkness where the audience waits.
