There’s a road that leads to the stage. It’s too long to walk alone, but it’s a path to call one’s own. Some take shortcuts; for those who don’t, it might look as if, from the solid ground, the distance until the place under the spotlight is short enough that one could touch its surface with a stretch of hands; but those who walk upstairs know that each step on the way up is like a battlefield. And those who make it to the other side whenever the expected, but always unannounced, violent storms come their way, might realise, time and time again, that there are no assurances that you will ever get to the safety of where you want to be.
As our lives set into motion, since the day we breathe in for the first time, everything will be moving. And we all change incessantly. One might wonder if the hardships of the walk don’t only bring to surface that which we already had inside — or perhaps we do simply morph into something else for the sake of the road. But we know better than those who wonder that the road which you walk is the one that holds all the footsteps you were supposed to follow to reach the many stages that make up who you were born to become. And there’s you, who were made with hungry infatuation like a rushing wind, and a roar like a thunder that makes even the most clueless of bodies rumble. And once you furiously claw your way to get to the next stage, you’ll know that’s where you were meant to be, wherever that is.
From the first time you felt the music set the rhythm of your vibrating flesh, there have always been new stages to reach. You have morphed into a thousand different shapes of your own, growing bigger and getting stronger from season to season, swallowing up all the sweetness and bitterness and throwing out a brand of beauty that takes after you. You cannot stay the same, but sometimes you still look like you do. As I watch you shed your skin on stage for the hundredth time, I see your exoskeleton that falls apart like a translucent armor under the spotlight, showing off what runs through your slender limbs, and what pumps in your burning chest. The resounding passion for moving your body with liquefied gracefulness, the unfathomable depths of your infatuation for the lights that shine bright on your face when you’re standing at the centre of the microcosmos that orbits around your gaze, and the shivers from the heightened emotions of the audience that resonate through the silky trap of the web in which you’ve got us all entangled.
I feel the sting of your venom and I’m addicted to how you make me short of breath, as if one day I could be so fascinated that I would suffocate. I’m hungry for beauty and I crave how you make it linger in my tongue, like the bitter, strong coffee that gets me through the day and keeps me up at night. There’s a taste that makes me infatuated with your infatuation to be exactly where you are, that makes me want to linger around to see where you’ll go next. When the lights go down, when the stage is dismantled and the stream is over, I’ve got your shapes and angles captured on the inside of my eyelids. I’ve fallen prey to your intoxicating spectacle, and, for every single time you make your way to the stage, I’ll be ready to be taken aback once again. It’s always worth the wait.