In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Twilight Zone.”
My friend is an aspiring photographer. I’m an experienced but not very well trained dancer. We decided to put our passions together by having a photo shoot, with another friend also a photographer, in the city during the late hours of the night. It’d be cold, and I’d be half dressed, but this sounded like a dream. And it was.
It felt like I was being followed by the paparazzi. I danced and posed not because I was a real ballerina, but because I felt like one. Standing in these beautiful parts of the city with a tutu & bun ready to be photographed, everyone thought I was a real dancer. I believed it, too.
Each photo captured looked like it had been come from a magazine advertising the streets or my long sheer tutu. I couldn’t feel the cold (most of the time). I wasn’t tired; I could have danced until sunrise. I could have walked home on my toes. These talented photographers captured what I felt, not what I thought I saw in the mirror. I looked, and felt, like a real ballerina. It was surreal.