Release of Inhibitions

She looks up, the dark, mature building towering over her, golden light escaping from a high window. "Twisted Branch Tea Bazaar" the sign reads. She smiles shyly to herself. At last, she may escape.
As the glass door opens, a low, pulsating beat greets her, made mystical by waves of whirling sound. Murmured conversation dangles upon the air. She strides up the stairs, cautiously poking her head around the bend of the landing before proceeding. As her foot leaves the last step she observes the advertisements on the wall: Posters regarding upcoming concerts and flyers about yoga to belly dancing classes and tabla lesson announcements. Entering the actual teahouse now, she notices a tree emerging from the wall. It almost looks authentic. Crimson Christmas lights all over it.
Her eyes are confused. Jolting back and forth between scenes: A hippy in the corner sipping Moroccan Mint, a
Mohawk sporting Goth on a couch, deeply involved with
her book: The Wonderful World of Wicca and the girl with dreads tickling the ivories keenly in front of the tree sprouting from the wall.
The rich smells of Mediterranean olives and dried fruit, black and green teas tingle her nose. She glides to the counter. She didn't come for food, so she orders the strongest tea available.
Glancing around, everyone is conversing with someone. She takes a seat alone toward the back of the room in an inviting section consisting of overfilled couches flooding with pillows. People all around her, absorbed in their own realms so that she goes unnoticed. She wants to speak. Will anyone hear her? If she screams, will people silently stare or listen, caring? She becomes submerged in thought.
The artsy, overexcited waiter brings her Chai and places the clay teacup on the low to ground, circular table. He pours the tea into the cup as she watches. “The flow of tea from the spout to the cup is so peaceful. Enlightening even.” She can’t believe she has spoken! The waiter just nods and returns to his duties as if nothing happened.
She leans back, waiting for her tea to cool. A moment passes; she tests the temperature of the chai. It is enticing. Down in one swig, she pours herself another cup. It too, immediately vanishes. Tingly sensations enhance her body. Her grip on reality relaxes.
The music becomes more vivid. Each instrument is clear. The violin, cello, piano, guitar, and even the tablas being tapped and thumped by the guy off, by himself are distinct. He is content. Rhythm in sync with the group of musicians scheduled to play. He was off, away in his world of harmony. He was attractive and youthful, intriguing.
She drifts in thought and falls into a trance, feeling herself start to move. The beat compels her, and she loses herself, inhibitions fading to the weary murmur of conversation upon the air. She soars, and who is the music? It is a part of her, it is her, and she is it, and there is nothing save the pulsating beat and the whirling waves.
Now revolving in the center of the room paying no heed to anyone else, she is free. At peace with herself, she spins faster and faster. Arms raised, intertwining, in and out, with the beat. Her long skirt swells up around her.
Shutting her eyes but continuing to gyrate, she has grabbed everyone’s attention. The feeling of weightlessness is intriguing. She senses she will float away. She is alive! Going more rapidly still, until she peels over.
There, she lay on the ground. Motionless. Staring up, she notes the bottle green, pallid, and ruby glass lamps suspended from the ceiling. The skylight, which looked like a hole of never-ending azure, encompassed little specs of light. Wouldn’t it be motivating to have those in every room of every house to look out of and be taken aback and thought provoked?
All of a sudden, she realizes someone was leaning over her asking if everything was endurable. Startled at first, she the takes his offer to pull her to her feet. Grabbing hold of his callused hand, she pushes up, off the ground. Only then, does she realize that the man who was assisting her was the tuned out tabla player.
Once standing, she stumbles, still dizzy, to where she had been sitting before. Seizing her coat she dashes out the door and down the stairs (nearly tripping twice) swings open the door and scampers to the lonely bench in front of her. Realizing what she had done, she begins to weep. Never before has she been able to let go, be out of control. And now that she had, it scared her.
The tabla man, bolts out of the door. He looks as if he was going to try to chase her down. He glimpses right and left and then forward. She caught his eye he walks casually up to the bench and asks to take the seat next to her. She gestures yes, and he does. He recognizes that she is upset and states, “…not at all bizarre, what happened in there. Happened to me once.” She giggled timidly and responded, “I’m generally repressed and introverted. I am not used to being able to let go and showing myself to others. I am never boundless and courageous”.
He testifies, “I felt like that for much of my life. It wasn’t until recently that I figured out I wasn’t actually living, I was only existing. I was always what everyone wanted me to be, constantly trying to be something I wasn’t. Stiff and withdrawn. All I was doing was living a lie and tormenting myself. I kept all personal opinions to myself and never talked to anyone I didn’t have to.”
“Was what happened in there exciting or relieving?” he inquired. She was confused and didn’t quite know what to say, but after a moment, she announces, “It felt great! I loved all the emotions that ran through me. I felt on top of the world. I felt…fresh and new!”
Thinking that the tabla man helped her a lot and really related to her, she asks, “Please meet me here again sometime.” He declares, “ I don’t think I want to do that. If a relationship was meant to be, we will meet again someday by chance.” “That would be lovely” comes out of her mouth, but in the back of her mind, she was scared she was never going to see him again. She was ready though, ready to take a leap into darkness, and have faith.
She goes, with a better sense of life. Walking, to observe day’s companion. Hearing the night. Seeing the night. Being the night. Twirling and leaping about the streets, she was finally alive. This night had born her again and spit her back into a new, enlightened reality.