nutcracker season would already be here if I were still in the studios and rehearsals would run for hours everyday, and I miss the music, and the yelling, and the leg warmers, and the blisters, and the pointe shoes, and the sweaty tights and leotards, I miss the counts, the codas, the horrible long snow dance, and the fucking petals, and the scary ass rehearsals in the theatre with the fucking sprinkling snow that you think you’re going to slip on and die. I miss the barre, and the center, and the horribly slow and beautiful adagio
I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis (via larmoyante)