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🎨 Edgar Degas

Sparks fly from shoes to floor,

hit hungry eyes and bounce back to lend fake diamonds

an empty shine, illusions of love

rehearsed, sighed, feigned and faked through countless hours of laborious repetitions and

mind-numbing practice

deadening to sense and faculty and living harmonies of mind and heart, music that’s dug deep scars in the mind like thousand jelly-fish stings immunizing the mind to its fresh beauty; rehearsals, repetitions,

illusions, delusions, perfection

won with oceans of pain & loss

None more devastating than the cancellation of the premiere,

encores postponed indefinitely

just the dread night of failure ahead

success denied, the one saving grace, the heart blow that could have reanimated the heavy limbs and given it precious glorious life back

withheld, indefinitely, taken

like a writer whose manuscript has been relegated to the dustbins of printing warehouses and grey offices that never see sunlight

And yet, the world would stop if

dancers and poets abandoned their fruitless exercise and left us illusionless, dreamless, soulless

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