Walking over to the windows, I press my nose against the glass to peer outside. A tall tree stands sentinel just outside my balcony, and it’s dancing around haplessly, looking like the contorted body of a ballerina.
There are moments when I feel the loss of my art like a death that I’m still grieving. The absence of what I used to love sits heavy on my chest.
I watch the tree moving with the rhythm of the wind. I sway in place, my legs itching for the stage again.
I’m so wide awake now that I abandon the idea of sleep altogether. Instead, I pull on the silk robe that matches the powder blue slip I’m wearing. Then I leave my room and wander aimlessly down the broad, empty corridors.
I keep seeing shapes in the walls, hearing footsteps following me through the halls. I keep feeling like
