Art, Soul, and Body

I am sitting on the edge of my seat. Awaiting the beginning to the start.

Waiting for the season to begin. For the rush of the feild to be back into my blood. Preforming for a crowd that did not come simply to see me, but yet, still waits anxiously for the art of both music and movement to captivate the next ten minutes of their life. The ten minutes that had been prepared for months. That could crumble or fly without warning. The intensity of the danger in the art, and the humiliation in a mistake.

Waiting for the feel of the wooden floor below my feet and the red curtain in front of me. The burn of the lights on my face, and the feel of the paint on my skin. Preforming for the audience that willing hands the fate of the next two hours into our hands. Hands that have worked for months, in mornings and at nights. Put on a face, to talk to other faces, and to show the world we can be more than the people that they have seen us to be. To share a story, to share a tear. To show love and hate in ways people see as laughter and art.

Waiting to be a part of one unit that needs the others in the unit to function together. Working together to push towards a master piece that will be displayed for many souls. Having all eyes on you. All knowing if you make a mistake, a wrong step, and off note, a crack, a slip, a fall. A complete and utter fail.

Waiting for the pressure of the performance, the beauty of the art, the power of the music, and the truth of the story.