The Life of a Dance

The Chinese country straightens out his clean olive suit and his crisp star-symbled cap as he moves forward calmly and yet nervously towards the brown-coated Soviet country, eager to move along in the dance of unity.

Hands meet with loving warmth, fingers intertwined with care. They move along the wooden floor with hesitation and awkwardness for a moment or two, but soon their feet start a smooth rhythm and they flow with ease. One man's hands wrap around the other man's neck with careful trust, while the latter cradles the former's bottom with understanding care.

The soft feel of wool and cotton hugs the wave of blissful love softer then the black ushanka on the USSR.

The lively and excited atmosphere smother the two newly wedded men in a joy one hasn't experienced, and the other a joy once thought to be almost lost.

The dance moves from a formal stage to the tiled floors of a home, where 15 children all look at with curiosity or shock as the union of men carefully spin to casual music, hands on their comrade's sides or holding their partners other hand in the air.

Two smiles radiate the living room, as peace weaves a blanket of two ever closer. Both the Soviet and the Chinese play equal the same parts, working the same way their husband does. Both of them are the mother and at the same time, the father. Worker and farmer, politician and commoner, simple and yet complex. Roles are almost practically abolished, for they are nearly the same.

But the cloth is torn to shreds as the floor disintegrates into a blood-stained battlefield. Smiles become scowls and light simple turtlenecks become torn darken fatigues as two soldiers move like snakes at a mirror, waiting for the other to lose his guard and strike. The circle round and round, no longer to embrace happily. In their hearts lay the temples of sobs and crys, wishing to reach out. Words sharper then the fangs of a viper and laced with poison shoot across the field. Soon, fists meet fists as blood and bruises leave their marks. Tears that burn like acid fall down to the ground, and when they hit the dirt, the ground bursts into clumps of mud and dust, leaving a crater in the earth. The world watches the fiery dance burn down a whole house with shock. Some are proud and boastful, others are concerned and afraid as titans clash.

Eventually, the burning atmosphere cools down. Solos preform on their own platforms now, the dancers marred with scars and alcohol. Hands fiddle with themselves, and hearts long to dream again, but not now. Slowly, the solos look at each other again, but they stay separate regardless of how they may feel. Slowly, they shake hands, but the damage is nowhere near healed. The Chinese country can only sigh, the Soviet country doesn't respond.

And then, suddenly, the lights go out. Stone becomes the new bed, cold and rough like the sudden winter death. The dance slows to a snail's run, drowned in sorrow. Anguish chains the feet and legs, despair latches onto the neck and heart, and misery clings to the back and the arms. A cloak of darkness envelops the Asian leader, confining him to a draged on damnation of a routine. Yes, he can still live, still move on, but it's hard, it's not what he wants. But life will not be what it used to be. No more sunlight in the carpeted office, where they'd dance in the world of life and work. He understands that. Slowly, the weight of the chains gets a little easier to endure, slowly does he come back out, slowly does he start moving somewhat like he used to.

As time goes on, the chains hide themselves, disguised in a costume of a country-man, under the cloths and bones of a quietly suffering depressed sack of flesh. A sack which makes something of itself, working hard and long till there's nothing left to work on, then diving into the sea of memories. The dance focuses less on the metal and more on the businessman. Light glows slightly, though it's not the same. But that matters not in this era, for China is taking matters into his own hands.

The status quo is interrupted one morning, as the dead comes back, living as if he hadn't been gone for years. The shock slows the dance like the sudden winter cold, almost to extinction. Hesitantly, one man reaches for the other man. The dam of emotions bursts with such a great force that the sorrowful tears, the tsunami of apologies, and the nearly suffocating embrace almost threatens to drown the Soviet country. But all is forgiven as a rewarmed heart is enlightened with acceptance. The lightning speed of spinning is slowed down moment by moment the union threads itself back together. Soon, the dance is reignited on grassy feilds of flowers, as equals begin to work together again. And soon, the dance finishes with a new (and improved) union of men.