In 1922 Virginia Woolf and Victoria Mary Sackville-West met at a dinner party. After inviting Victoria (better known as Vita) to publish her work through Hogarth Press, a correspondence was born that later blossomed into friendship, followed by an affair between the two women. Even after their intimacy had faded, the two remained close friends.
She was scared to dance, afraid to feel that familiar slam of bone against the hollow stage. Something had changed that night, something inside of her had stilled at the sight of those bodies, that blood. It had been such a long time- years really, but still, the fear weighed her down, and a cold had settled in her bones.
Once though, she had soared. A child, free, alone on the stage for hours, practicing for her own perfection. The one place she felt whole, the one place she felt like herself. Not a strange amalgamation of those things that her parents wanted, her teachers, her friends. Not a list of labels bestowed upon her by society. Nothing mattered except the rhythm; ever leap, ever spin, her world spiraling in an orbit that swung the planets around her, brought the world into line with her dreams, her desires.
Now the music called again, pulling her into the theater from across campus. The steady beat of others’ seeking order in the chaos, in lines and practiced rhythm across a hollow stage.