I count my blessings, do you?

I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I look at my legs. There are scars, bruises (I get fresh ones every few days from the way I dance, the latest was from having pirouetted into the wall due to space confinement ), stubs (for I havent bothered with the shaving and waxing lately) and what nots. My calves are humongous  My legs are ugly and I have never been and never will be a leggy lass.

But I love them with all my might although they are not aesthetically pleasing. I love them because I am able to walk and God bless, dance. I can dance, dance and dance all night because of them. If writing was Marquis De Sade's constant erection, as proclaimed by his honorable self, then dancing is my perpetual mind orgasm in life.

I love the scars and bruises on my legs because a story lies behind each and every one of it. I love them because they are testimony to a fiery and nonperishable passion. I love my body simply because it materializes my piteous existence into perspective albeit a dust in the vast cosmos. I love my body simply because. And, this is not another narcissistic indulgence.