  When my feet feel the floor my mind goes blank and my soul takes over. I feel really close to God when I dance; almost like he is there with me. I am no painter, but if my boots were brushes, I'd have ten thousand masterpieces laid out on the dance floors of dancehalls from Texas to Florida and even a few in Washington state. And when my feet hit the floor, I never know where the next stroke is going to go. I can think of nothing more internally satisfying to me than beat of a good song. Especially a good quick two step or a swing. There is a gratifying precision to the steps and the movements and when it all goes right it feels like the world is in perfect synch. When my feet feel the floor the music becomes a part of me and the rhythm becomes an artery, carrying life to my heart and soul.
Music is my life; it gives me hope when nothing else can. When my feet feel the floor they move like ghosts. So fast and so freely you cannot focus on the last place they left. Sometimes I feel like energy lives inside those smooth wooden slats of the floor. Like it is a great spike that shoots upwards into my brain and stabs my adrenaline and my endorphins and forces me to smile no matter how hard I try not to.
One day, my feet will no longer feel the floor and remember the steps. My joints will scream louder and longer and the energy I once found rising inside of me will have been long gone and all I will have left is the memory of what the floor felt like when I was still young: those memories of smooth wood, of corn starch and talcum powder, of late night roadside dance lessons in the dirt or on the asphalt.
Those memories of dancing underneath stars so low you could bump your head on them. And of course the ones where I danced the night away with many a young lady underneath the fuzzy glow of neon lights. Sunday mornings never had anything on Satuday nights. Then, as I pass from the world, I should hope that Heaven has nice floors. 
