Are we not all dancers in our own ways?

Dance, dance.

She dances on, twirling across the stage, always dancing, under the harsh glare of the spotlights,

executing complicated moves perfectly, effortlessly, smiling gaily for the world to see.

All the world's a stage, and she is but a player.

You see the sheer joy in her every movement, the strength and steel barely concealed in each graceful moment, in a pirouette.

She dances,

and the band plays on.

Fame, power, glory, wealth, she has it all.

But what of the girl behind the curtains, the one that no one sees, that no one bothers to see?

She is but living a lie, spinning a complex web of lies, pretending to live. She is but a mechanical toy, someone they can wind up at their liking, for their own amusement. It is by their whims and fancies, that she dances.

But one day,

the clockwork will run down, the mechanism will rust.

She will be tossed aside and forgotten, abandoned in favour of the next new toy,

but she will be free.

Perhaps then, she will be able to live a life of her own.

But until that inevitable day of her delivery, she dances on, bravely.

Dance, dance.