Marie-Noelle: The Aftermath
(a sort of companion to Let it Be a Dance, which desperatly needs to be finished. This one probably takes place sometime in July 1832.)
The things we do for the sake of art.
We contort our bodies into shapes they were never meant to be in to achieve turnout, flexibility, pointed toes; we starve ourselves into oblivion to make us light on our feet; we crush our toes into a bloody pulp.
Sometimes I wonder why we continue, why we all continue, this art known as dance. What is it for? Entertainment. To waste a few hours of a couple hundred bourgeois who have nothing better to do with their time. We tell a silly story, we waste time, energy, strength that could most defiantly be put to better use.
Jehan says- no I need to stop doing that- Jehan used to say that ballet was poetry in motion, that it was something deeper and more spectacular than anything written down. He always had a way with words like that, and always made things sound grander than they really are.
So, why do I do it anyway? Why do I adore dance so much that I put myself through all these hardships for it? What is this burning desire in me, this need to spin and jump and move and express emotions with my actions? All I know is that it’s been there for as long as I can remember. Ever since I learned that ballet existed, I have yearned to move with that grace and beauty. I gave up so much for it. I even began to love it like a person, and I loved it more than I had ever loved any other human being.
That is, until I met Jehan, of course. Jehan. My sweet, charming, loving poet. He set a new angle on my entire world. When he entered my life, everything spun like a kaleidoscope, giving me a new image of the world around me. He made me see beauty where I’d never seen it before. He showed me a world outside of the Paris Opera. After a while, I began to realize how silly it all was, and how much pointless work it took. Dance suddenly was not worth the effort. I had found something else to love, and this something did more than take, it actually gave back in return.
And then, without warning, he was gone, out like a light along with the rest of his bloody 'revolution'. How could he have done this to me? How could be have been so selfish? Now I have only my dance again, but the spark has left. It was hard enough when it was the only thing I loved, but now that I have felt true love, how can I go back to loving mindless actions?
And yet, it is here to the stage of the Paris Opera that I come for comfort. Maybe there’s a part of me that loves dance, and that can reconcile and go back to the art I once loved with a passion. Maybe, someday, I can go back to it. And someday I can forgive Jehan. And if I’m lucky, I’ll eventually be able to forgive myself, too.