Sometimes, it’s hard to know what to write about. You sit and stare at a blank screen, watch the cursor fading in and out, your hands poised above the keys.
And nothing comes to your mind.
You have so many things pressing on your heart, but none of them will come together and form a cohesive thought. If you could put feelings onto paper, you would, but it’s impossible. You can’t color your dreams, you can’t write your emotions – but there are people waiting to hear what you have to say. How can you tell them you have nothing?
You step out onto an empty stage, with all the spotlights shining in your eyes. The light is so bright you can’t see the auditorium filled with people, but you know they’re there. Watching you, waiting for you to perform, to do what the program said you would.
You were supposed to recite and essay written by someone else. It doesn’t matter that you’ve never met them, it doesn’t matter that you don’t really understand it or care for it. It’s what was printed up for you, it’s on the paper you hold clutched in your hand.
The microphone looms in front of you, waiting to hear your voice.
The audience sits. It waits. It knows what you are going to do, it’s seen it a thousand times before. But it’s expected.
You stand there, feeling very alone in the huge, empty space. Your heart beats quickly, your stomach turns to butterflies fluttering against your ribcage.
You have your script.
You know what you’re supposed to do, what everyone expects of you.
You open your mouth to recite the first lines of the essay… and stop. Time stands still.
“No,” you say. The word, amplified by the microphone in front of you, seems to echo throughout all of space and time. “No. I have something else.”
The crowd gasps, and to you it sounds like the edge of a hurricane. This wasn’t supposed to happen, they say. No one deviates from the script!
Your script flutters to the ground.
No essay for you; no pre-written soliloquy.
Instead you spread your arms, fill your lungs, and sing. You sing your own song, the one you wrote, the one you’ve been writing your whole life. You don’t care what anyone else thinks, you pour your heart, your soul, into your song. The words are full of life and color and beauty, and heaven is in your breath because you’re not reciting what someone else told you to.
You’re singing the song you were born to sing.
Your song eventually comes to an end. You have to stop singing sometime.
The crowd is silent. Some people walk up to you, shake your hand. Some people sneer, some shout, still others glance at you, frightened, before hurrying out the Exit.
And you leave the stage.
Seventeen + Christian + dreamer + author + artist + bibliophile + fangirl + nerd
I ♥ British accents, twinkle lights, bright nail polish, fashion, tea & coffee, friends & family, typewriters, candles, jewelry, flowers, rain and sun (but no heat), horses, music, handwritten letters, Peanuts, making people laugh, blogging
