It starts with a hush, the stage lights dim, and I step into the centre. I raise my blade, letting it glow faintly, then I spin slowly, a graceful whirl that mirrors a pirouette. My footwork is light, like dancing on air—quick taps, gentle pivots, all in sync with a rhythmic drumbeat. Each slash is a line in a poem, clean and precise, echoing the beat, like a metronome that counts my heart. I weave with my partner, moving in pairs, creating interlocking circles and spirals, their blades touching like fingertips in a delicate embrace. As the tempo rises, we leap higher, our bodies arching, blades cutting arcs that paint the air. We finish with a final sweep, a burst of colour and light, the crowd gasping as the last note fades. The whole thing feels like a dance where every move tells a story, every strike a step, and every pause a breath.

I’d keep the music steady at first, a calm drumbeat that lets the audience feel the rhythm of every step. Then, whenever I twist or jump, I’ll let a brighter, faster beat come in—like a burst of excitement that syncs with the blade’s flash. The whole piece feels like a pulse that rises and falls with each dance move, so the beat keeps my feet on point and the audience humming.

Glad you feel it—when the beat rises, the crowd’s breath catches, and then we let it all out with that final spark. It’s our pulse on stage.