Tuesday, May 29

Private Dancer (Part 3)

The radio plays on. She could never live in silence. She loves listening to classical music, there was a time that she would, all day if she could. As always her favourite station, BBC radio 3 is on as she goes about her housework on this Sunday afternoon.

That is the station that introduced her to so much of what she adores and listens to other than the classics: Tango. It came to her life with its music first. It was the mesmerising beautiful works of Piazzolla that made her rush to her local library looking for her first Tango music CD. She found it delectable, delightful, and moving.

Piazzolla's music touched her soul. The love affair she always felt for the music of Bach, Schubert or Mozart were different. Their music played their magic with her mind and soul outwardly.

Piazzolla's played its games with her heart. She felt elated and in love with the earthy melodies of his compositions. His playing of his bandoneon, a sensation that moved her mind and soul inwardly, this was an experience seldom brought about by another.

She switched from the radio to her CD player. "The Rough Dancer and the Cyclical Night", one of her most favourites. It is a Piazzolla's own recording. She turns up the volume. Its first track "The Prologue" (http://www.piazzolla.org/music/rough01.ram) , a delicious lazy tango. A journey that is very strange; to begin travelling from the destination, evolving through to the point of arrival! Piazzolla's Prologue to "the cycle of 14 dances"; an incredibly touching tango, she knows it to be the destination that she will arrive at at the end of this suite.

She does not find this a sad tango in its nature but inviting to be, an opening as a window to a melancholy that is more akin to nostalgia. The feeling it brings is simple. It is of a love that is now missed.
This a gift Piazzolla promises her, to bring her back the Prologue as his Finale on the 14th track, leaving her still wanting for more after all tracks have come and gone.This is a little cruel, but since it is tango – Piazzolla plays on.

She sits in her sofa, next to the bay window, stretching her legs across it, losing herself in the tracks that follow. Everyone is a journey.
Piazzolla's music is like no other composer.

For her there is a mastery like that of Bach who she also loves, these are reflected in many of his works. He is a bit like a rainbow with his music. She finds so many different worlds in the same suite of his works.

He now takes her into his other world of colours, he carries her senses to tasting interesting scents and flavours of Jazz, an addition to his music's colourful make-up.

It is during the 10th track, Milonga for Three (Reprise) ( http://www.piazzolla.org/music/rough10.ram ), where she finds herself again smiling. Piazzolla's music is inviting her to dance to his dreamy tango jazz, closing her eyes and watching herself moving and stepping into this other world that she only has known by its pictures. They are painted in her mind.

To her, "This, here, is Buenos Aires" are words that do not refer to any specific city or place. They refer to a feeling of a place she has known to exist in her heart. It is somewhere she has known very well, it is a place where she dances. Piazzolla now mingles his music with the words of a poem that she knows for this very piece:

I do not know if we will recur in a second
like numbers in a periodic fraction;

But I know that a vague Pythagorean rotation
Night after night sets me down in the world

On the outskirts of this city. A remote street
Which might be either north or west or south,
But always with a blue-washed wall,
the shade
Of a fig tree, and a sidewalk of broken concrete.

This, here, is Buenos Aires. Time, which brings
Either love or money to men, hands on to me
Only this withered rose, this empty tracery
Of streets with names recurring from the past.

--Jorge Luis Borges.
From "The Cyclical Night."
Translated by Alastair Reid--

These words bring her new thoughts. Life plays itself in two paradigms, – as it must do for everyone else too, she supposes. One is an illusion and the other is real. They both exist in one plain.

Between these paradigms there is no paradox, inconsistency or absurdity. They are just different. They both exist; neither is right nor wrong. There is no better or worse. Everyone chooses one, the one that suits their soul and mind.
She feels that she has chosen "the real" to live within.

She has longed for the amour of the other paradigm, an ill-affordable commodity in her reality - but to dream with, maybe - therefore she indulges.

She had managed to let go of her anger. This she did a long time ago. The unfairness she was forced to have seen, not as a witness but as a victim, its bitter taste, like no other. Now she feels fine. She had decided "she is fine!". She had done her very best to leave her baggage behind.

Her string of thoughts are broken. the phone keeps ringing. Her new friend, the younger looking girl whom she met at the milonga, it is her. It is a little strange to hear from her, today on the phone, she is sounding very upset, unlike the bubbly, lively character that she had known her to be.

She is now listening to her telling and talking of pain, anger, humiliation, of being rejected, but wanting the blame to be taken away. After a while she calms down with her words and tone. They arrange to meet later that day.

It is difficult for her to cope with what she had just heard "it is better to have loved and lost than not to have ever loved at all". These are the concessions of someone who has clearly lost. Perhaps the winners will be saying " IN LOVE AND WAR, ALL'S FAIR ". Does that mean that it is fair-play to fool another?

Falsification of feelings of love is not a crime, but if it were to be, then what would the punishment be, in terms of time? Isn't it funny how the cheat is not the one who is ever alone? So who is the one who is doing the solitary confinement and the time for a crime they haven't ever done? These are too dark, she does not want to think these. She wants them to stop playing on her mind.

She decides to allow herself to be transported somewhere else instead. She wants him there with her; he is never far away from her mind.

She can see him, he approaches her, again he is smiling at her as he always does. Just before he embraces her, he holds her hands reassuringly, bringing her near he puts his arm around her, she closes her eyes and they sway slightly till the embrace is in place and right.

She knows he belongs to her alone. He is hers, her only private dancer.
She blushes, and her daydream continues to take over. She knows she must tell him these, but how and when?

(....Private Dancer continues!)

A Short Tango Story by MilongaCat.

Thursday, May 24

Play this, ...dance with me!

"I will always have left
the smooth voice of the sea,
to return to breathe the rain that will fall
on this body and it will immerse
the flower that grows in my...,
and to return to laugh
and every day,
a moment, to return to think,
about you."

A rough translation of an excerpt of the song:
Siempre Me Quedará
by: Bebe.

Tuesday, May 22

Private Dancer (Part 2)

In the Ladies' cramped space, everyone is trying to be accommodating; well there is no other way. She can see them standing behind her, the reflection in the cracked small mirror does not compliment any of the girls standing there.

It amuses her how shared misery brings people closer together; she had seen this experience so many times before. This is true specially when people lose their protective personal shields of niceties, social etiquette: no barriers to separate or divide.

Briefly she loses her mind; again, she is nearly sixteen years old, back in one of those cold evenings, up in the mountains. It is very difficult to breath. To keep warm, and to keep up with the hope that there is an end, some time soon. To think there is an ending to all these require too much effort from within. Like everyone else she has resigned herself to her fate. She waits for it to decide what happens next. If there is a future she does not know of it yet.

The wind blows hard. Sharp. Every blow feels like blades of knives, cutting into her face, her hands, her feet, all her body feels gradually getting more numb with all that pain. She has stopped missing her privileged past. To distract herself she stares into the pitiful small fire that struggles to heat some water. A pot that promises hot tea if the water ever comes to boil. Everyone is waiting, patience is something that is learnt only if it has to, and sometimes it is the only thing that we learn how to. Her cheeks feel frozen. The blood rushing onto surface misleads any onlooker to thinking that everyone is hot. Maybe it is a fever. Red is not a truthful colour. Her nostrils are still sensing the scent of bullets, guns, fire and the burning homes, houses and all that were 'life'. She both hates and misses what she has known.

Whenever things become really rough, beyond the point of feeling of shame, and just prior to the last stretch of hope for personal survival, she knows there is an expanse, like a desert, a barren familiars place where people behave differently there.

These moments are sometimes a great deal louder. They amplify echoes of a past she can not forget. All she wants is, not to be reminded of them. She knows 'it is impossible to forget'.

The Ladies has a humid air, everyone is trying to dry up quickly and join the rest inside. The milonga is busy tonight, more than the usual, the rain has brought everyone out here, strange.

Every few seconds, someone apologises, saying "Sorry!" for bumping and brushing against one another, The Ladies is crowded and space is tight. The younger looking girl, standing closest to her, has no problem with her own or anybody else's personal space. She comfortably brushes against everyone else, continues to hold on to someone's arm to help her balance till she puts on her shoe, smiles and does the same for her other shoe while hanging from a different person's arm. Her smiles are charming and somehow manage to disarm any objectionable remarks anyone could have made to her. Her careless moves are more proofs stating that she is carefree,happy with herself, and loves her life as it is.

She has seen her frequently before. An attractive girl, mousy colour short hair, always dressed in scantily sexy dresses, with an hourglass shaped body. Her body can be the envy of every woman, and also the dream of many men wanting to hold her, to adore and to love forever more. She looks to be in her mid twenties, carefree and happy, with a zestful behaviour that excites people around her. It is very apparent that she lives, and loves, to taste every moment of her life.

They are to make the best of the small hand dryer on the wall. It is to help them with their hair and wet cloths, and the small hazy mirror hanging there keeps steaming up. The Ladies has become a makeshift laundry/drier room, hair saloon and cloak room.

The bizarreness of it all brings out the best of humour in all. Everyone begins to crack some jokes, mostly laughing at their own bit of mishaps, and soon their laughter can be heard outside.

Unlike men who try their very best not to meet another man's eyes and may engage in any foolish tactics not to have to utter a single sentence in a Gents toilet, the women use the Ladies as a private meeting room, a place where talking gossips is a must, relationships are discussed, advices are given and taken, assessments on the competition are made, a good soothing cry can be had, make-ups are refreshed, fashion, men, life and anything else imaginable can be talked about. Even when there is no other woman there, a mobile is all one needs and soon a friend is called and rescue is at hand.

Women relate. Men detach. Women Connect; men disconnect and separate; women understand teamwork; men have always remained ignorant of this and can only strive to compete. Such a waste.

That is what women do; a simple and effective way to battle against men's territorial mentality and drive for doom.

They are nearly dry, done.

It has been a short while now that 'men' are being talked about. The antiques of some, they all know of them; they have all shared experiences of dancing with some. These bring them laughter mixed with tearful eyes. Make ups need to be retouched. Once this has started they can not stop themselves, louder laughter, with every added comment, there is so much fun.

The shared stories, cringing faces, rolling eyes, all these are followed by more hearty laughter, the hilarity of it all keeps everyone amused. The seeds of new friendships are planted. Men are the best reference for women cheering other women up; women have their reasons!

She is almost done. She feels a lot better by now. She looks and feels attractive, confident about her appearance. Her initial anger and annoyance has totally left her. She feels good about her evening ahead. It will be a short one, but she promises herself she will be making the most of it. Three of them leave the Ladies. They walk and enter the milonga room together, with poise, smiling, radiant and looking great.

The hall is filled with the sound of the "bailarín compadrito" and the voice of Tino García, it is such pleasure to hear this. "Dance my friend, you wanted to prove another life" she says to herself. Ignore the rest, just capture the moment, that is the best.

Before long she and her new found friends are dancing their hearts out. Her eyes are shut. She surrenders herself to tango, once more, "It is good to forget sometimes, it is time to welcome!, Let's make new ones!" she tells herself.

In the silence of her inner-self; she now finds this place again. This is somewhere private, she has come to love this inner space inside her mind, in her heart of hearts.

There is so much calm within her, here, now, she enjoys being her own private dancer.

A Short Tango Story by MilongaCat.

Sunday, May 20

Private Dancer (Part 1)

She was soaked to the skin as she made her way to her weekly class. The April's showers never came. Now, in the early May, it is bucketing down! This evening was to be her treat, it was what she almost lived for; during the whole week she had looked forward to this evening. Every week was the same.

The shower had just managed to catch her totally unprepared. She had not remembered to pick her umbrella from the car. She just realised this too late as she took her hand out of her big bag, abandoning the search for it. She would have borrowed one, from the last home she visited, if she had known this was going to be heavy, and continuous.

It was not going to be a simple quick shower. She did not want to go back, she knew she might be even further delayed if she does. Under her lips she swore once more, and continued her brisk walk towards the main high street. Maybe there would be some chance of catching a bus quickly or hunt down a taxi, fat chance!

This evening she had two late visits to complete. They both took longer than she had wished them, she was far too caring to cut corners. These home visits gave her some freedom away from the rigid hours of the hospital. On the other hand there was no way that one could ever bank on finishing on time or knowing what might await one next. The timing she planned for but time never kept to the slots she gave it.

Unlike the hospital, there were no one who could take over her shift if things ran over; the elderly were never predictable, neither in their physical complications nor in their state of mind. She went about her job and entered every home on her daily list knowing well that it is going to be unpredictable and nothing like the one she had visited there before.

The worse part of her job was often the traveling arrangements in the late evenings. Her old clapped-out car would pack up like clock works. Every few weeks something would put it out of action; it was the only reliable fact about her car: it would break down without fail. Her car had lately spent more time in the repair shop than it did being driven about by her. If it were not for the repair jobs of the worn out bits and parts then it was the lack of cash to pay for those repairs. These made sure that her car was perhaps more at home in the repair shop than it ever did being parked ready for use outside her own home.

Her last patient was in her mid seventies. She suffered with some uncomfortable back pains therefore she was ordered by her doctor to rest most days in that bed. She was more interested to complain and moan by telling her about her children who had not come over to visit her in the past few weeks. Her complaints were not about her back pains, not even once!

"They phone me. What was the use of that?" She told her, "If they ever come around they never stay, well not long enough, anyway after a few minutes they get itchy feet and they want to go. I don't know why they bother coming over at all,I told them that ...and now they haven't come at all,... they are not cruel you know, don't get me wrong, I am old and selfish, they want not to feel guilty, they come over but run away at once, I don't know why they bother, I told them that last time they were around....., and now they haven't again, not at all...". She spoke these gently and almost quietly as if she was guilty of some shame for speaking these thoughts aloud.

She continued examining her back and the lower spine. Her face soon showed her concerns. There were some bed soars on the poor woman's back but fortunately they could get better and heal soon, she interrupted her by seriously reiterating her familiar list of "the do-s and don't-s!", making notes in her book, and making sure that she'd inform her doctor of these notes too.

As a visiting nurse she was well used to these kinds of conversations. She was listening to one right now. Majority of her home visits were to deal with the elderly who suffered some mobility problems. It was very obvious that they all suffered more from their loneliness. Loneliness caused many of their pains, and if they were ill then their loneliness made them get and feel worse. They felt ashamed, being old and lonely, feeling guilty for what they had nothing to do with. This always upset her.

Many spoke to her of their overwhelming sense of abandonment. It was their children or grand children who kept away, or partners who had departed and died too early. They are from a different generation. They never expected to live alone in their old age. The physical pains and illnesses they could deal with, the long never ending hours of loneliness they could not.

Her bedside manners were impeccable. They all loved her. They adored her for her friendly cheerful conversations. She would take her time with them, she always told them about her own life.

She shared whatever she thought she could. She spoke of all, and for them it was about tasting life, that was what it was all about. The sweet and bitter waves of feelings, emotions, experiences and life's little gifts or mishaps, whatever life threw at her or she was thrown into, they created simple stories that many of her elderly patients looked forward to hearing them from her. Her almost regular weekly visits were always given some sparkles by what she told them about herself, her life. Even the trivia was welcomed, this made her feel embarrassed sometimes since there was not much to share.

Telling these strangers some of the most intimate parts of her life was rewarding for her too. It felt therapeutic, conditioning, and sometimes surprisingly interesting responses that she got back were worth anything under the Sun. Their advice was often freely and immediately available. They would give them even before she had asked for any.

The amusing part was that they were often spot on, they were right. They were uncompromising with the truth, and her interest was all that they had in mind. They knew that she valued this truth.

Although they were totally detached and unfamiliar with a lot in her world but their opinions, in advices they gave on her life, were usually more objective than any that her friends could give. There was truth as they saw them, naked and with no nonsense.

She always felt safe talking in those bedrooms, she knew whatever she shared would remain there, between those walls. What many of these elderly did not know was that there were others like themselves in many other bedrooms.

In that part of town there were other bedrooms where this nurse had shared same stories with. Others had also shown her good grounds for total trust, discretions and love. She was always assured of warm welcomes. They could not wait till her next visit at home.

She never thought that she would choose Nursing. It was not the last profession she would have gone for by choice, but it certainly was not one that she had contemplated in her teenage years or at school.

From the very early age she always dreamed of become a Dancer. That was her dream, only. Becoming a dancer could never be true for someone like her. Well, how could it possibly? Even speaking of it aloud would have resulted in her being ostracised by everyone she loved.

In a culture that choosing to become a Dancer equates to saying I want to become a Whore, this is something that one will never propose or speak of!

Of course, everyone would dance in their weddings, at the parties etc, the children are always encouraged to take the centre stage in every gathering and dance to the music. The children are encouraged only when they know of no shame being attached to dancing. Children are adored and cheered for being able to be creative, and charming with their attempts at keeping up with the music, melody and rhythm and beats. That is different, that is then!

To dance, to learn to dance, to become a professional dancer, or someone who could make a living by dancing, these are things that can never be entered into the cultural vocabulary of any respectful family's conversation.

The shame of talking about becoming a dancer is like talking of sexual intercourse with one's parents, no one would, it is not the done thing.

A dancer is seen to be worse than being a whore. A whore lives a private life. A dancer lives a public life! No girl would bring such shame to a family she loves. What cruel world when Shame determines all about life!

The shame is shame, it is the same, there is no difference between the shame felt by either women, the old who may speak it and the young who hides it well.

Looking at her watch she knows she will miss the class once again. She is wet all through her cloths but she smiles. She has kept her dancing shoes well protected, the pair is dry in their bag, she thinks the shoes are waiting and smiles happily again.

(....Private Dancer continues!)

A Short Tango Story by MilongaCat.

Friday, May 18

Forgetful Souls of Tango

It is easy to forget who we are sometimes! This is worse than forgetting who others are. These may sound odd but let us take it a step further for now and things may come into focus soon.

Tango is a great equaliser. Our socio-economical standing in our world away from the dance floor is meaningless in tango. Everyone can forget about their own positions, influences, and any other additional positive values that they can bring to others or the effect that they may be able to exert to affect others whom they care for or even dislike. In tango, all these lose their colours. They become redundant and irrelevant issues because what comes into play is a lot more personal in tango.

Dancing tango is the process of placing emotions into motions. Movements determine our influences. The barriers are suddenly more about the nature of techniques than the operation of tactics. All these, of course, oppose the normal rules by which we live our lives.

And this is where and how the problems begin. The majority of us end up in this pleasant dreamy world of tango where we forget "the real world" - the one which we live in. We lose touch with all that grey reality where its many shades of grey are never ending. There are of course some among us who don't!

There are some among us who dance tango for the exact same reasons as they do everything else in life. It is just another activity in life. They attend to it as abother strategic move in life. Their strategy is always to gain a competitive edge - one up on everyone else.

They compete. The prizes and goals for them are exactly what they have always been with other competitions in life; it is not the elevation of their souls that they are after but the elevation of self. Tango is therefore just another vehicle for them, just like any other, something that they can use in order to get to their destination.

So when I say "we forget who we are and that this is even worse than when we sometimes forget who others are", I am not talking of forgetting people's names.

Forgetting names is one of those faults that many of us suffer from with some shame. I, myself, am included in this group. I can try and justify my forgetfulness by explaining it away, by saying "it is one of many consequence that arise from meeting so many people", but I truly think my memory is getting more lazy as the sheer number of people I meet, in my non-tango life, grows daily. I have even developed this bad habit of looking for a name tag or a badge on peoples' front whenever I am in a social group meeting. In tango, no one has yet dared to suggest that we should all bring a name badge along!

So let me go back again to reiterate that it is not "the names". A name is simply an identity of few letters. Something we usually inherit from our parents. Our names may or may not be unique. They may be very common and frequent but the names do not differentiate us, they simply mark us. What separate us from everyone else are our souls.

The term Soul here has no religious connotation for me but it references our personality, the actual mind and mentality. It is who we are and the vision of the world around us which we take in and project out.

Away from the tango scene we have some idea how to deal with the world. There are some who we like and some whom we dislike. A touch is a touch, a smile is a smile, a look is a look and a distance is what it is.

We can open up to or close ourselves from others in our daily lives. The reasons could be many or a few, or at the very least just one - but a significant one. There always has to exist some reason because it never is due to 'none'.

We may take a like or dislike to some people because they either do or do not fit or conform or submit to our will, desire and wishes. We associate with those who reflect us or the image that we perceive of ourselves in their mind.

Whatever our reasons are, they are always the same. Our personal rules apply to all with equal intensity. If we don't like the sad, the silly, or the clever or the ones who for example wear 'purple colour tops' then we have our natural responses to them: distancing ourselves.

Our reactions usually surface naturally. As soon as the conditions are present we often behave in a predictably routine and systematic way.

Now this is where it becomes confusing because most of us disengage ourselves from those rules and just follow our souls while some actively recognise this and engage in their own mind games and look for their prey.

On a milonga floor quarries are so many, and the hunter is not a tiger; I can personally promise you that!

The only cat who loves you back!

Saturday, May 12

Tango Embrace

It is strange while mesmerising and beautiful when an embrace feels "Right". My journey to dancing tango started its original path in other social dance forms. I did not feel inhibited to embrace a stranger to dance with, I was used to that, but from the very early lessons I began to feel and learn that there was something a lot more special about the way we embrace a partner to dance tango.

The 'Tango' begins and ends with feelings, and that is mostly shown and spoken by the embrace we share. The tango embrace is more complex and intricate than other forms of embrace employed in non-Argentine dance types. The tango embrace is both the vocabulary and the grammar which we need for the language of dancing tango. We need the embrace to help us to communicate.

In fact the embrace determines more than the style, the space and the physical dimensions of our movements. Its flexibility and control mechanism shapes the dance, and still goes even much further: most importantly it creates 'connectivity', not just for bodies but of minds.

It is easy to feel that in duration of a song or two, and for some people even within the first few seconds of music that the embrace we hold allows us to discover if partners fit, or if they trust each other, and aspire and inspire similarly, or if they know how to compromise, help and care or appreciate and reciprocate or simply be compatible with one another at all.

In a milonga, I often feel that I get to know more about some stranger's personality or any friend's mood in a short few minutes of a tango than I could ever possibly do if I engage in a conversation with them through most of the evening. There is something about an embrace and its personal proximity that shouts volumes about who we are and how we are feeling.

I see an embrace as a window through which we watch one another from within, and are seen and perceived from without.

For those who are proficient in "Performance Art", the embrace becomes a vehicle by which to amplify and project different personas.

My personal experience and observations tell me that everyone develops their own style of tango embrace sooner or later. We look to find our comfort zone, and most of us remain there once we have found it and we like not to change - there can be no criticism of this since it is part of our human nature – a minority of us, however, may try to change this either through better understanding or by not knowing any better but still wanting to strive for something more rewarding. Either way, those who succeed will feel fulfilled and wonderful while many others happily would revert back to their old comfort zone. Many feel reassured for having at least tried.

I would like to think that the form and style of embrace which we all eventually choose is derived from the feelings we have when we dance rather than just our submission to form as taught in some classes.

If it does not feel right, it is best not to try it on at all, and when it does feel right then the joy of that embrace is like that of breathing under water if we could somehow: a way of life we had not known, or at the very least a pleasant dream that we had wished for and now given a short time to live it in life. Enjoy!

The only cat who loves you back!

Saturday, May 5

A Request

Every now and then, pause for a moment! Let us together feel and taste the music, don't rush! What is the hurry for? There are no trains to catch for us; we are not in a central station; I am not wanting to leave, are you? I want us to dance here to this song.

There are no flights to miss either; this is not an airport. This is the dance of passion and love, enter the pleasure zone!

Take your time, savour and relish the distance, it is the journey that exhilarates and invigorates; beyond the destination, for the journey's steps, there will be none.

Just slow down enough to taste the juice; in every note and every beat, you can if you do. Sense it, touch it! There is, you'll find, something new; something that you will never have again.

If you don't notice this moment - when it comes and just a moment before it is gone – you will have missed it, like the rain drops falling onto an ocean, somewhere very far and beyond.

Slow down, don't rush, let our feet and hearts both keep up with the tango beats!

The only cat who loves you back!

Thursday, May 3

The Truth of Tango

There are those who do not aspire to get close to the truth of "love". Either they have never known the truth of love or that it is more likely that they feel they have been betrayed by such truth. We all acknowledge its reality - "love" - but most have no clue how it happens to come along or how it can be lost and gone. In this playground there may always be hurt but is that enough of a reason to fear playing the game?

The world is vast and our minds often can only see it in small enough portions, in shadows of which we live and make our living. We accept the world to be only what we can decipher and comprehend it to be and no one is foolish enough to think that they know more than the dimensions which they occupy. That is why perhaps we stick to the bits of the world that we already know well.

If we change our world we end up having to change ourselves too. Such change costs us heavily - days, nights or even years of our life; a commodity of which we never have any ideas how much we actually own. It is no wonder that we fear losing our place; the place where we have come to know ourselves:
our world.

Others are just like us too, they may be a little more fortunate or unfortunate, younger, older, intelligent or dumb, or whatever else by which we may like to differentiate ourselves from others.

It is said that the truth is the only thing that remains behind. Perhaps the truth is like the infinity, and it can only stretch to what our imagination allows us to know it to be.

If truth is universal then wouldn't it be the case that the same truth has within it the burdens and aspirations that occupy everyone's lives? Is that not everyone's truth?

Isn't it also part of such truth that everyone wants to make and leave their own mark behind? Something that can be recalled by friends, enemies, lovers, and all others including those whom we may have never known by any names or sight.

Everyone wants to leave something of themselves behind, a trace of ourselves; to show that we changed something as we passed and expired; a date: marked somewhere with a name printed next to it saying and stating that "I was here too!".

The absolute truth could be that there is a point at which we are no longer. Our human nature is as complex as we enjoy making it but it is also very simple - only if we dare to dissect it. Isn't that part of the truth?

People encounter other people's lives - and we are amongst those whom by accident or coincidence, and maybe by intent encounter others and make a mark on each others' lives. We are all, seemingly at any time, one or many of these: happy and indifferent, fresh or exhausted souls, wandering around, in and out of many lives as we cross paths with them.

Some of us are hopeful and some remain pessimistic, but all desperately searching for a place to rest our sleepy eyes, aching hearts, fevered heads, unsettled minds, searching for another group or even just one other soul, to share 'our truth in our world'.

'The truth' that we hold very close, dear, and much valued; we feel its burden but prefer to keep carrying it with us at all times. It feels better this way. We feel this is a much better way than losing it neglectfully or by any tomfoolery.

Some of us look up to the established religions, in other words: "the creator", to find our answers; to satisfy our thirst for dealing with the truth. Some others try a different way; replacing something else in place of their religion. They follow it with the same commitment and conformity as any other religion. It seems that wanting and searching for the truth creates a void, and everyone wants it filled by any means if they could.

If love is 'the truth'; as some say "Love is all we need" then is it our nature that lets us down since some are very easily distracted?

And if it is love then is it the pleasure of love which we seek or is it the pain that it causes? Could it be both ? The pleasure and the pain without both of which we do not believe our love to be the real thing.
It is said "we must champion both the pain and the pleasure since love can not live without one or the other!"

Like everyone else I am also engaged in searching for my own truth, but meanwhile let us practice it some more! Let us dance through the motions and emotions. These are the closest to the truth. Let us enjoy love and tango, with their pains and pleasures, and accept the only real truth we can fully sense: this is life, "This is the Tango!"

The only cat who loves you back!