Confusion.

The people around me are contorted. My life is like a ballet in a morbid Tim Burton production. Their arms flail at one another for a greeting, wrapping their dangling appendages around each other to show affection. They spin their blithe bodies in joy, the dead skins cells protruding from their scalp catching each atom in the air. When they are happy, lines of skin crumple together to form creases that frame the opening in their face that now exposes their little rectangle boxes for decimating pieces of carbs, fats, sugars, salts. One foot abrades the worn wood panels that lay beneath them as it moves itself in front of the other, putting the ballet dancer in motion. Tim Burton did not revise the script; they speak, move, live, love, but his movies cease to make sense. Or maybe he made perfect sense, and it was the viewer’s perception that was contorted. I was watching this repulsive production objectively, over and over, and it was the same monotonous journey. How could it be my perception? These perfunctory and repetitive dancers resided on a VCR tape, being rewound and played identically. They would wake up and dress themselves with conforming pieces of cloth and pirouette around the day, just like they did the day before.  But I am not a dancer, nor an actress, nor blithe. Yet I look down and see pointe shoes wound around my feet with silk white lace.

-Hannah