In my dreams, I am flying. From foot to foot. Hands swinging. I am moving across the floor. Flowing with the music. I glide, I step, I kneel. It’s all synchronized, it’s all perfect.

But then you see, I wake up. My childhood dream of being a dancer (and singer) completely left me the moment that I started classes. Ballet was horrifying as I couldn’t understand what it meant to move with the rhythm and bend my knees. Turn left didn’t make sense. Separate the feet while moving my arms was an impossible mountain to climb. Likewise, in chorus, my voice came out as a whisper. As I soon learned in my piano lessons, I don’t have sense of rhythm. In my head, I heard the music but my body didn’t feel the beat. It just wanted to move whatever way it wanted.

Some may say that it was the lack of training or the fear of embarrassment that I never improved.

But then when I fall into my dreamworld, I can dance. When I watch youtube videos, I am mesmerized by the elaborate choreography. I see myself in them, gliding across the floor. I am the smiling chick, the douchey guy, the big party rapper.

I am on the dance floor at weddings. I regularly attended 80s night (until I started being annoyed by obnoxious people).

More than ten years ago, a friend and I passed by a student group blaring pop music across a field. “How disruptive,” she said.

Her words didn’t register with me. Instead, I lightly swayed my hips and said, “It makes me want to dance.”