Dancing with Demons


Diabolic forces may lie dormant, barely noticeable, or gnaw at a person’s core until madness looms.

After the initial shock of an upset is experienced, its memory fades into the recent or long ago past, and now a type of dance begins.

As our minds think of the trespasses against us, we either enter a graceful, smooth gliding waltz or something akin to a highly energized River Dance jig swirling out of control.

The style is not always chosen.  Various stimuli works within the mind where teensy idiosyncrasies propel us toward acceptance, fight, or flight modes.

Perhaps, the injurious assault, whether verbal or physical, is relegated to an abyss where the affronts are not thought upon at all.

Whatever our response, a cadence exists between our memories and our present. A to and fro movement initiates between the two.


In a peaceful state, a place of resignation, I engage in a delicate whirl with my reflections.  As I remember and dismiss the causes of strife, a subtle ebb, and flow take place, and an aura of grace similar to a ballet is attained.

With flashbacks too painful to bear or the wounds too fresh, my ire is unleashed and rockets to astounding, exhausting heights and plummets to gut-wrenching lows.

In this unsettled, confrontational state, I seethe with anger, and my being is thrown into a wild, frantic kind of energy as I flail on the floor, pound my feet and fists to the ground.

The demon clutches my hand.  His dark, penetrating pupils stare straight into my soul.  The hot foul mouth opens.  He beckons.

“Come dance with me awhile.”

I recoil.

“Must I?”

With urgency, he spouts, “But of course, I insist.”

Unable to fend off the invitation, I slip into beastly arms waiting for the music to fill the air, wondering, a provocative ballroom rhythm or a savage stampede?

My personal preference is to sway with fluidity and dignity. Acknowledge, and reconcile with past indiscretions.

Yet, understanding myself as I do, I realize I possess remembrances too appalling to reach reconciliation. No sweet melody plays now.

Loud, metallic head-banging noise explodes and invades my being, leaving me with a tear-stained face and exhausted.


In bygone years, women stood with open dance cards, waiting for someone to approach.  Hand and hand, the strangers, walked to the floor where they gyrated slow and deliberate or jumped in wild abandon.  This was a night of pure chance.

Will I be met by a gentleman who guides me skillfully and gracefully as he whispers kind and complimentary words or will the grub snatch tight and spit debasing grunts and groans while his hands venture into places forbidden? Ah, which will it be?

I’ve entertained my share of dancing with the demons, and such days are far from over. Sometimes, when faced with the ugly, I’m an exquisite ballet dancer, others, I trudge around in infuriated tribal warrior fashion.

The steely eyes pierce my peace, a growl summons.

“Come dance with me, woman.”

“If I must, but one day, Demon, I will cease to be, and we will dance no more.”


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