The contact point of continuance is simple: I have no audience, and yet I dance. I spin where no eyes can follow, where no applause can reach, where my steps dissolve into the quiet air. The world forgets me, and yet I remember myself, the rhythm of my own bones, the sway of a spine that has learned its own language.
I have carved a void to whirl inside. It is a hollow of exhaustion, a storm where my energy collapses and rises again. I spin even after I am drained, even when my limbs feel like rivers running dry. The floor beneath me is nothing but imagined, the walls of the room unseen, the ceiling unneeded; I am both boundless and contained, a cyclone in a cage of one.
I dance for the pulse inside me, the tremor that says: still, still, still. I dance for the ghost of joy that flickers like candlelight in my chest. I dance for the void itself, for the silence that watches without judgment. And in this spinning, in this unbroken motion, I find the paradox: I am exhausted yet infinite, alone yet complete, empty yet full.
No audience has come. No world has noticed. And still I dance.
