the dancers

                                              When i have talked for an hour i feel lousy—

                                              Not so when i have danced for an hour:

                                              The dancers inherit the party

                                              While the talkers wear themselves out and

                                                              sit in corners alone, and glower.

—the dancers inherit the party by ian hamilton findlay

there are times when i feel talk is exhausting. in a way, that's a ridiculous thing for me to say because, basically, i like to talk. i am, i think, a good conversationalist—i like animated discussions, i like dialogue that flows back and forth. but, sometimes, isn't silence refreshing? not complete silence, but silence with a little music playing in the background; a silence where words cease to be important because they are unnecessary. my only desire is a gesture, a nod or a wink, and the chair legs scrape along the wood and i am standing, ready to be led to a wide dance floor, gliding past color and light and shadow in a quiet world of my own making; and i move and sway and turn with a small thing called bliss sitting on my shoulder.