My resistentialism or hers?

I’m not sure what you would call this thing, I hold it my hand, first thing that comes to mind is an over indulged paper weight although this object means so much more…

I have been a dancer my whole life, my name is Piotr Tchaikovsky, and this is my intimate object.

I started dancing before I was ever conceived, my mother once pregnant with me had no doubt in her mind that my kicks and restlessness inside the womb was the making of a world famous ballet dance, she had no one to dispute her opinion, as my farther was merely a donor to a lonely woman, she was to be left with me and only me, there was to be no gender bias if I was to be a girl- dancer if I was to be a boy- dancer, I hadn’t even been born yet not even drawn upon my first breath and I had already secured myself a life career. From the moment of my first step, it was places every one! Constant inexorable lesson after lesson my child hood twirled away with the blink of an eye, from being home schooled I made no friends, from a harsh practice schedule I got not toys, all I seemed to inherit from this misshapen lifestyle was misshapen feet that looked like torn apart pig hocks torn to pieces by a ravenous dog, a bar and full length mirror my only comforts, but I did it all for her, to see the look on her face when she watched me dance, was like looking at life at its purest form an ambient glow of reassurance. All my hard work and training was thundering me towards my sworn goal a places held only for the prestigious and elite at Vaganova Academy, Saint-Petersburg, Russia. Without fault my 13year old frame carried me to perform my best performance to date as well as that of my last. My mother was over whelmed with joy she burst out in tears and held me ever so tight, stricken with emotion my mother relaxed her stance on distracting toys and whisked me off to the shopping centre to buy me a token of her appreciation, the token of which I hold in my hand as we speak, a novelty item that when you turn it up side down bubbles race to the surface in a swirl, on the other side to the bubbles blobs of black spiral their way down with accurate feyness, toys were never allowed in my house as they posed as a detraction and this was the closest I had to a childhood, what ever I was to receive I would have accepted with the upmost joy. She said ‘you deserve it’, to any other child it wouldn’t look like much and would loose most attention after a minuet or two, not for me I loved it with all of my heart, mesmerised by the small black blobs dancing their own way from top to bottom, it was always somewhere I could see it, I carried it every where with me, even came up with a game to play for during practice. One turn and I would race the bubbles and blobs to a duel of pirouettes before they were all disappeared I would reiterate this obsession over and over again endlessly breaking records. 27 full pirouettes was to be all I was or ever would be able to do, for on my 26 turn my toe caught the leg of the table where my beloved toy was positioned, the slight jolt caused my toy to fall from the table and roll ever so quietly to under my planted foot and on the 27th revolution, I was tripped to the floor by the only thing I ever truly loved other than my mother, by the only act of material kindness I was ever shown. The fall had me land awkwardly onto my hip where it cracked and dislocated. My mouth didn’t utter a sound, as I lay there with what must have looked like a misplaced smile, I thought to myself… it’s finally over, I would never dance again.