ʚ sloom ɞ

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

G, C, F.    

G, C, F.

Hold F for twice as many beats.

My fingertips press the nylon strings against the wood of the instrument. I repeat the pattern multiple times over—pressing, but not making a sound. G, C, F. Hold F for twice as many beats. My fingers transpose along the fretboard from one position to another, yet the rest of my body is as stiff as a board. I take a deep breath. I’ve practiced this too many times to be concerned about a mess-up, yet my thoughts trickle to the worst of outcomes.

I am surrounded by pitch-black darkness, only knowing where to stand by how stage crew directs me. F, C, G on “believe.” I’m doing it again. It’s something I cannot help. I bring the instrument close to my ear, near-silently pluck all four strings, just enough to hear the familiar keys. Tune is correct. Chords are memorized. Breathe. I wipe my sweaty palms against the fabric of my short dress, the whiteness of it almost bright enough for me to see through the dark.

I’m brought back to reality when the crowd on the other side of the long, black curtain erupts into sudden applause. I have no memory of hearing the act before me, though I’ve gone to enough rehearsals to remember the faces of the two young boys, one beatboxing whilst the other sings opera. A bit of an odd choice to place a singing act after something so silly, though the playfulness of the ukulele seemed a smoother go-to than most.

I turn my head away from the mic, quickly clear my throat and straighten my posture. The crowd grows silent as the curtains open, almost in slow-motion, making a slight squeak only heard from my side of the stage. Bright lights flash, an excessive amount of warmth hitting my skin. Butterflies in my stomach. Slight shaking of my hands.

All eyes are on me. Waiting, watching every movement I make. They can see me, yet I cannot see them. It’s too dark and the lights are excruciatingly bright. My gaze searches for the bright red exit sign, the centre point of the auditorium. Eye contact. Look ahead. Don’t squint.

And, most importantly, remember to smile.

I take a silent breath and begin to pluck the strings to the intro of the song. G, C, F. I look down at my fingers a few seconds at a time, carefully picking the tune in fear of a mess-up. They ring clean. As the last note rings through the auditorium speakers, my serious expression grows into a huge grin as I hit the first chord of the song and belt the lyrics into the mic.

My nervousness instantly vanishes, like clouds passing in front of the sun, my muscle memory kicking in. The words to the song grow in my vocal cords, flowing from my throat and passing through my lips, a steady river stream of musical melody. My body naturally moves to the beat of my own sound, a subtle swaying back-and-forth of my hips. The fingers on my left-hand dance along the fretboard as my right keeps up with the rhythm.

Every inch of my body and every effort of my soul is working in harmony, like one gigantic entity made up of separate parts, with different functions, though all working together for the same purpose. Up until this moment I’ve never felt so completely confident with myself.

I hear a few sounds of approval and calls of my name every now and then, though as soon as I get to the chorus of the song, the singular voices become a loud, bright chorus. “I’d like to make myself believe…” which instantly spikes my energy up to euphoria. I strum harder, I belt out louder. This is where I belong. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Lost in the moment, I don’t have to remind myself to smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧