Losing (and finding) Myself to Dance

I've been trying to write this piece for weeks. Literally. I can't figure out how to articulate what dancing means to me here in my life now...other than it allows me to simultaneously lose myself and find myself. Control is important, even vital, to who I am. I spend most of my days fighting to contain difficult situations, in my head, my work and my surroundings. It is exhausting. When an opportunity presents itself to shut off, I JUMP. In a dark club, surrounded by the pulsing of the crowd, nostrils full of the sweet/sour smell of sweet, cigarettes and rhythm, mind rolling on big bastard beers or gin or sambuca or some noxious combination, ears full of sound, so loud you can feel the speakers cracking, rattling some deep and alluvial vein, I can just be.

No thinking for a little while.

I am present; feet pounding, arms flailing, shoulders shaking, sweat flying, eyes closed, head thrown back. In that moment of loss, I think I find myself...or, at least, a joyful, pure, animal-brain version of myself. I'm able to get to a place that is hard to find the rest of the time, obscured by expectations, responsibility and bullshit. I am able to dance myself clean.
Meditation helps me get there sometimes too, but it doesn't sound like this. Or this. So if you see me shaking it, know that I'm there. Really.

Emma Impink appreciates well-timed strobe lights, her Dad's 'Sympathy for the Devil' dance and watching people lose their shit to this song.