I don't know if this even counts as a confession, really. More like... just something I can’t quite put my finger on. Something that just *is*. I guess I'm turning thirty-eight next month, and my weekends are spent learning the Foxtrot with people my parents' age. Or older. (My parents don’t even know this, by the way. They think I’m "networking" or something equally vague and corporate.) It all started, I think, when that last gallery show fell through. The one I’d poured… well, everything, into. After that, the paint just felt heavy, you know? Like it was judging me. So I was just… wandering. Downtown, kinda aimless. And I saw this flyer tacked up outside the community center. "Ballroom Dancing for Seniors! All Levels Welcome!" I don't know why. I just went in. Signed up. I remember Mrs. Rodriguez, she must be pushing eighty, looked at me a little funny when I said I was new. Her eyes twinkled though, like she knew a secret. She just said, "Bienvenido, mijo." Welcome. And now, here I am. Every Saturday, I put on my kinda-nice shoes (the ones I bought for art openings that never happened) and I go. I learn the waltz from Mr. Henderson, whose hands shake a little but his steps are still so precise. I help Betty with her box step – she keeps giggling and saying she has two left feet, but she’s actually pretty good. They talk about their grandkids, about their operations, about the price of gas. And I just… listen. I don't talk about my art, about the deadlines I keep missing, about the stack of bills on my kitchen table. It’s like a completely different world. A world where everyone just moves. It's weird. I feel… not happy, exactly. More like… quiet. Like the buzzing in my head finally just… stops. For a few hours, I'm just a guy learning to dance. And then I go home, and it all comes back. The blank canvas. The feeling in my stomach that won't go away. I guess I thought by now, I’d be… somewhere. Established. Not still figuring out where to put my feet. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. It just… is. And it’s the one thing I look forward to all week, this strange, old-fashioned escape. (It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it?)