There are moments in life when it’s necessary to say who you are. There’s often no way to shout it from the rooftops because, among other things, there’s often no voice that can reach that far. When a person has to say who they are, with urgency, their throat can tighten from so much external pressure that it becomes a type of flood wall. It is therefore the body’s moment—that of saying without speaking—and the expression of a liberated body is dance. Whoever has tasted it, knows.
Go out on the town, dance until you drop, glimpse a beautiful shining face among the electric lights of a club. Use your body: let your arms say who you are; let your hip say who you are; let your neck converse with another sweaty neck, soaked in the patina of partying, the marker of a blessed pandemonium, your nape in the mouth of someone with whom you’ve spoken not with your voice, but with your chest. That person knows you better than they do where you come from, because here they listen to you, because here they let you. Dance to express yourself freely in the wee hours of the morning, when all the rules are fast asleep in bed. Whoever has tasted it, knows.