photo creds to one trevor johnsen
A young girl, no older then 10 is seen on an empty street. Her loneliness emanating from her like heat.
This girl, all by herself. Her dreams an impossible length away. Down the dark corridor that has no light at the end.
This darkness, it suffocated her, pressing her willowy limbs against the underfed form of her torso.
This young, homely girl, no older than ten, no parents or family, only the shadows that hide her from the men prowling for her body.
This girl was dancing.
The beauty and grace of her movements, fluid as water, transforming her sorry appearance, the oddness of her practically non-existent form into a thing of awesome power and beauty.
And the dance, oh how lonely it was, how sad as it told her story.
sweet and tender girl, alone in this cruel world, her family dead and gone for years. She turned to the street for companionship, preyed to the shadows to keep her safe, asked beds of grass if they would be her bed, and the treetops her roof. How she suffered, but grew all the same.
Here she is, a girl with nothing, a girl of nothing. She rises from her place in deepest dark to become a blooming flower.
But now her dance is over, and she slinks back to her tree, to her grass and sleeps. Dreaming that perhaps one day she can be who, what she wants to be, a dancer, someone who is somebody, who has people to love them and appreciate them.
And she will, this young girl of the shallows will rise from the depths of the poor, the heart of her lose, and become who she wants.
All she has to do is believe that she can be the dancer.