Her Dance
Welcome to TUL’s guest blog series, featured every Friday. These articles serve as a platform for guests to share their personal journeys, revealing how they embrace an unwasted life. This week, we're featuring a special edition poem by Eleanor Messeguer, a dear friend.
Broken rays of sunset dance on her face as she stands in the kitchen.
The warmth intoxicates her, spreading through her body, caressing and holding her heart. In her own world, eyes closed, she smiles and spins, her dress gracefully brushes her ankles.
Time stand stills as her heart races.
She feels whole. This is it. This is bliss.
Reality snaps back as at the sound of tin breaking. The sound shatters through her stillness, and slowly the sounds from around bleed in like a cacophony of protest.
She is handed a drink and like the condensation dripping down the can, a cool liquid coats her throat. The light dims, the sun goes down and an unnatural comfort band aids her heart once more.
The moment gone, was it even real? Or some long lost memory sweeping its innocent hand over her eyes?
How did she get here?
The moment gone,
was it even real?
With each sip, another brick is laid. A little higher each time. In the middle she stands, unsure, tight, trapped, others paint her wall with colours of expectation, of promised broken, laughter made up of voices desperately not her own.
But like the brick built, each drink allows a small hole to appear so she can momentarily poke her head out to view the spinning world around her.
She steps out to see candles dancing as she gets lost in the séance, the magic of it all until something tugs at her eyelids uncontrollably and her body goes limp into the feathered pillows.
Connect with Eleanor on Instagram @_ella_m_ to join her on her inspiring journey to alcohol freedom.