In that cavernous murk, it could have been a reticent ghost. But you feel his breath and see his rose skin, and know he is but a form.
His shoulder bones shift sides and his alight eyes reveal themselves with command. You cannot move. You don’t want to move. There was another world in them- a mirror image of the present-, as unreal as reality, and as real as disregarded truth. You watch him lift his pupils up with a controlled force. All the worlds disappear in a blink and tranquilly he presents himself.
He tweaks a toe and you hear water. He lets some fall off his fingers as he levitates.
He is a looming flower.
He plucks a single sea from the sky and is abruptly transformed. He is carrying two souls and salt. The very next moment, he is a fluid torrent of fire. You witness a body of contrasts. He portrays a preview of how a pauper exercises his powers. And in a split second he blasts into himself.
He is gold.
You see a silhouette against red, as the drum rolls. He is the resident God.
In disguise, he attends a merchant. He sweeps the floor, and gets stale food. He burns ill habits, and receives foul words. He draws fraud riches, and gets a bitter poison. A thousand single eyes stare back at the trader before he could spot the moon on the boy’s head.
He dies, and revives as an immortal.
He owns himself. But if he is to be experienced, he’s your personal composition. He is ferocious, and follows a circle. He tells a million stories with his palms. It is soon clear that everything is contained in one. His ever unmoving lips are silent. But you hear him scream.
He is a path of life.
The light fills the platform bottom-up, he doesn’t budge. His stillness makes everything around him move. They become dust. You breathe it.
He is immobile. Yet, you are aware of what he sees -around and above him. His vision takes a trip and soaks each floating energy matter into his fiber. Then: he takes a step forward.
That is when he becomes you,
And you become the dancer.