[I wrote this a couple months ago and re-read it. After tweaking it, I decided to post it here--not just Facebook. Mm... dancing.]

dance
/dæns, dɑns/
verb, danced, danc⋅ing, noun
–verb (used without object)
1. to move one's feet or body, or both, rhythmically in a pattern of steps, esp. to the accompaniment of music.

-Dictionary.com

On the outside, that's what dancing looks like. For most people, that's fine. It seems cool. It looks cool--but that's just speculation of a spectator. They watch a dance like they watch T.V., read a book, or passively listen to a song. They don't get into it, taste it, or feel the groove. They watch and think 'I could never do that', shrug, and move on with their lives. That's what dancing means--for most people.

It starts with a fascination. It always starts like that--you see something you like, and you feel attracted to it. Maybe if it particularly spikes your interest, you take the time to develop the relationship between you and the object of attraction. Then you find the more time you spend with it, the more you become connected to it, and the more meaning it has. The more meaning it has, the more you spend time doing it... and the cycle of attraction, connection, and love begins. You can't stop. You don't want to stop. You're caught up in the process of learning, laughing, mistakes, love, and growth... and it absolutely consumes you in an upward spiral. You want to live, because you're alive.

That's how it was for me. I became fascinated by dancers in music videos as a kid. I didn't start dancing right away. Instead I'd watch it here and there, and silently dwelt in a suppressed envy. It was like having a crush on someone and seeing her throughout your whole life. 'I'll make a move eventually,' you say, and then you move on. Maybe you forget about her. I did for a while. In fact, I forgot about it for years. Then a bombshell dropped on me. I saw and experienced a dance that I had never seen before: popping.

Suddenly everything in a song made sense. I no longer listened with only my ears. It was my whole body listening now--every beat, every note, every rhythm in every bass line, every melody in every riff and progression as I moved with it. I felt it all. I sensed it all. I could feel the music inside every inch of me--the bones, the skin, the hairs rising up on my neck as currents of energy ran up and down my spine. I wasn't just popping my arms or legs- even my eyes were popping out. I felt my smile moving on beat, my heart racing quicker than it ever, and the overwhelming sense of 'I am finally alive'.

I felt that all again today. It was as fresh as the first time I began to move my body. I was an energy with a purpose, a force with direction: velocity. My body had a destination, and the deadline was the next beat, scale climb, and musical measure. Then there are moments when you can stop moving, and it's just as effective. These are the moments when you stop your body like a well placed rest note, because silence is just as important as sound; stillness as important as motion. You just know the time to move, and the time to stop.

My life had a destination. I saw myself doing things I'd never imagined doing before. 'Is this me? Is this really me, feeling this, doing this? I thought this only happened in T.V., or books. This is beyond anything I could have previously thought or experienced.' There was no end to my dancing. I danced everywhere--grocery stores, buses, streets. My world suddenly had a new life, and I was living it. There was no deadline. I wanted to dance until the song ended, the world ended, or the Universe ended. If any of the last two happened, I'd hope for a repeat button on creation.

You may wonder why a musician loves to play a song over, and over, and over again. You may wonder why some people can listen for a song on repeat for four hours straight. You may think they're insane, retarded, or a mixture of both. 'What's with these people? Don't they ever get tired? Are they mental?'

Yes, we are.

Dancing to a song differently is hearing it the first time over. It's just as crisp as when you heard it at the club, on the radio, or on your iPod. Something happens. The song may be the same, but you play with it--you change the way your body moved from the last time, and you find something new--you create something new. Now... the song feels completely different, and you've fallen hopelessly in love with it once more.

Then you do it again for four hours straight.

I imagine it's the same feeling musicians get when they play a song they're enamoured with. As a listener, you can tell when a musician plays a song differently--maybe not change the notes, or re-write the song, but simply play it differently. He might tell a different story, interpret it differently, or pour more feelings into it. When the meaning changes, the song is changed. The musician playing the song has added his own soul to the soul of the song, and the effect is felt impacting your body. Great dancers can do that with a song; just as impacting, just as impressive- as impressive as pressing piano keys in a coherent sonata. Great dancers make sonatas with their bodies.

Will my body ever stop dancing? Is there an end? Even if a song ends, I just press the rewind button. Dancing has become me. Music has consumed me. I am the music you hear, the movement you see as a song rolls along through its tempo, measures, and beats. The truth is, music will never die. Music is immortal. Music is life. You can carry it around in your head or your body, and you can live it like many people do--but it never dies. It is always living inside me, inside of you. No one can touch it, shut it off, or pause it for ever. Even if you try, it's just another rest note. Then the notes you hear start right back up again. And then what? Well, you dance.