Five, Six, Seven, Eight.
He dances a delicate ballet on the worlds finest piece of string.
He's always been a ballerina, he's loved nothing as much as this dance for all the time he's lived.
He lives, breathes, sleeps, this very dance.
On loop he makes the same steps, in different orders, to different songs.
Every last song fits his dance, be it an insistent waltz, or a fiery tango piece
He never skips a beat, and he never misses his step.
The audience praises him naught, but funds his little show yet.
He dances not for them, anyway, but for himself.
He, such as everyone else, has some favorite songs. He likes the ones with a clear and concise beat, and the ones with heartfelt lyrics
He spends the most time practicing these tunes, making sure every performance tops the last.
His very world rests upon this dance.
He is stupid.
There's not one thing in the world that should occupy a persons mind to this self deprecating degree.
And yet here he is.
His feet are indented and scarred from the string he dances on.
He can't walk without his feet en pointe,
He can't breathe without a metronome to remind him what beat he's on.
And he'd give anything to continue his stupid fucking dance.
The worst part is even if we made him stop,
He wouldn't be him anymore.
All that effort to save our favorite dancer from the grasp of his devotion,
And what we retrieve is an empty husk of a man,
A puppet with no strings, a burnt out lamp
His heart stopped beating when the music stopped playing.
So we let him dance, dance till his feet are bloody and broken.
He dances until he passes out from sheer exhaustion, and he wakes up and does it all again.
Every day, until he's finally allowed release from his own conscious mind
Pity he, the ballerina who loved his craft to death, but make no mistake.
He'll die smiling, and he'll dance forever in heaven, too.
