Work me until I bleed. No, work me until I puke. Until I faint. It's not enough. I'm bursting, but I can't breathe, just let every bit of anxiety inside me show in my body and then I forget. Everything. The drums drown leave no room for thought. They give me the energy to keep my exhausted body moving like it's the last time I will ever dance. I forget everything remembering what's in front of me. And the ladies who are perfect, limbs everywhere sweep me up in the wind they make and for a few seconds, I am them. I vibrate and jump and am wild. I am strong, jumping high, and keeping on even though I can't even breathe. I am what I want to be. Then, after days and days, but actually one hour and then some, It's done. Over. The drums keep going. They keep you wild, but you can't move any more. And you won't be able to move until the week after. And I can't wait to do it again next week. This is why African dance is perfect.