GREEN
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2427 13.42 KB 253
2427 13.42 KB 253
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>Theaters are wonderful, the stage, even more special.
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>Stories unfold, sometimes songs will as well.
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>Laughter, cheers, tears, so many emotions to express here.
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>All of it is to be shared with those that take part on the stage, as well as those who watch on.
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>Everything – from those that act, to the very props and backdrops themselves – are important.
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>The various parts are much like the parts to the body: vital.
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>So it is essential that every element is there, for they draw in the audience, and complete what is being told on the stage.
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>Even those with minor roles are important.
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>Such as ponies like yourself.
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>More often than not, or rather, always, the roles you receive are quite simple.
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>They rarely have any significant lines.
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>The reason for that is, well… you tend to mess things up.
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>It’s not as though it is intended however, it’s just nerves that create mistakes.
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>Or perhaps it’s something else.
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>Like this is not where you’re meant to be at all.
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>Rather believe it’s nerves, much easier to cope with that thought.
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>Though it’s difficult, if not nigh impossible, to not feel the eyes that watch everything, judge anything.
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>They assume too much.
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>But are they wrong?
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>Don’t know.
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>Regardless of that, focusing on the role is very challenging, almost too much of a task.
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>Words uttered are fragile, and often crash like a house of cards.
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>Simple movements are not spared either, with some being stiff, unnatural, or worse, resulting in falling face flat.
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>Only when there is no other, only when you’re alone, is when things are much more easy to do.
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>That doesn’t excuse the mistakes made here.
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>Thankfully, the theater has not let you go.
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>In all honesty, they haven’t done that because you’re willing to do so much: setting up, tearing down, staying after, and more.
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>Everything has been invested into the theater, and ultimately, the stage itself.
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>Sadly, it rarely pays off.
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>Should have stayed home.
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>All that would do is create more hurt than being here does.
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>The only alternative to it all is… extreme.
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>Shouldn’t be thinking about that, at least, not here.
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>Focus on rehearsal instead.
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>You’ve read the script from back to front, word for word, letter by letter.
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>It’s been practically etched upon your brain.
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>But there’s always room for failure, especially for one like yourself.
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>Which is why you’re in this current role.
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>All you’re doing is dancing with the others, and singing in the chorus.
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>In other words – just an extra.
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>Extras are important, too.
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>They have to be.
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>They’re supposed to be.
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>Is that… envy that you’re feeling?
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>No, it’s just… something.
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>What is it truly?
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>Pain, for it hurts to know that you’re nothing more than a background pony; to be forgotten and ignored.
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>Going to miss the cue to enter if you keep dwelling on such things.
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>Missing it would only add another mistake to the mountain of mistakes made throughout life.
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>Can’t help but release a quiet sigh in response.
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>Just within sight, comes the sign at last, so you begin to move with the others.
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>Onto the stage everypony enters, dancing, singing, just as intended.
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>Harmony fills the space throughout the theater.
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>It’s such a beauty that can make one forget about everything else, and lose oneself.
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>Would be nice to do that right now, but alas, that cannot happen.
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>At least, you cannot.
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>Focus on the lines to sing.
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>Measure the steps, move in time.
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>Act, don’t think.
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>Ignore the watching eyes.
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>Be somepony else.
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>Ignore the burning lights.
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>Be real here.
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>Ignore the building pressure.
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>Be special now.
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>Ignore the crushing world.
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>Be-
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>Just as you go to lightly spin, you nearly misstep.
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>With that, reality returns in a fierce flash.
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>Whatever lines that were to be sung are completely absent from memory, as if they were never there to begin with.
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>There is not time to attempt to recall it, need to rely on a fallback.
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>Dread doing this, but there is no other choice.
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>Have to lip sync.
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>Sweat rapidly accumulates upon your brow, along with a growing tightness in your gut.
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>Existence around comes to a crawl, with all of time and space becoming all the more apparent.
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>Everything teeters on the edge of oblivion.
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>Gravity mounts further upon your very form.
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>When it seems as though all would cease to be, the scene ends suddenly.
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>Heart beats thunderously, ringing is in your ears, yet, you still cannot let go.
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>A light clop comes from the front row, which releases a collective sigh from everypony else.
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>Except for you, though.
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>Did everything go well?
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>It must have, no pony is at all upset.
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>Perhaps now you can finally-
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>“...can I talk with you a moment?” Says the soft voice of the director.
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>-relax.
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>…
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>As everypony else talks among themselves, you slowly tread off to the side.
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>The tightness inside begins to shift into something worse with every step taken.
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>Past experience foretells what is come soon.
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>Just hold on, wait till after it’s over, then it can be dealt with.
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>“...you did better this time around, but I noticed that you’re still having trouble with your steps. Furthermore, I noticed that you forgot your lines again…”
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>Your inside bubble away slowly.
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>Please, please, hold on, not here, please…
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>Staying silent, you nod along as more is said.
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>Find it hard to understand what is being uttered however.
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>A hoof is place upon your wither, and is followed by the director locking eyes with you.
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>The gaze is strong, judgmental, and above all else, agonizing.
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>Feel so very small right now.
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>“Listen, I – along with everypony else – know that you’ve been working here for a long time, and that you always try your best, but…”
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>There’s a hidden sigh of disgust with that pause.
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>Might as well have been a dagger in your gut.
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>The bubbling speeds up further.
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>“...cannot afford to have mistakes on opening night. So you need to really work on your chorography, as well as memorizing your lines better. And, if all else fails, then maybe you should reconsider to sticking to helping around the stage.”
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>Heard this all before, with it being just as painful as it is now.
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>Last time anything was agreed to however, resulted in the current downgraded role you have.
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>The corners of your vision begin to darken, and it’s getting harder to see things in general.
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>You bite your tongue hard to concentrate, and nod.
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>“All right, just do better, okay? I know you’re capable of it, I’ve seen it before.”
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>Translation: you are pitiful.
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>There’s a quick pat upon your shoulder before you’re left alone.
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>The second that happens, is the second that your legs begin to quake.
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>Eyes burn, throat too.
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>Summoning everything you have, you hurry off to the restroom.
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>Sweat rolls down your coat in rivets as you struggle against the threatening force within.
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>You manage to crash into an empty stall, and at last, everything is unleashed.
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*cough cough*
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>Good news: you made it in time.
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*cough*
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>Bad news: your throat burns something fierce, and your gut is now void of any food.
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>Suppose it could be worse, somepony could have been in here to witness you empty yourself.
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>While hugging the toilet, the words from moments ago replay again and again.
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>Almost everything that could go wrong today, did go wrong.
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>Worst of all, it threatens your greatest passion in life.
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*cough cough*
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>And here you are now, vomiting like some frightened colt on his first time on stage in front of a crowd.
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>Is it too much to ask for one day without any trouble whatsoever?
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>Wishful thinking, that’s what that is.
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“...ha… ha… bleh… darn it…”
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>Still alone in here.
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>Rather no pony see you like this, ever.
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>Is it luck that your dignity was saved?
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>No, there is no luck, just a series of accidents; good or bad.
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>In your case, it’s almost always bad.
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>Your body quivers as you slowly rise back up onto your hooves.
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>The toilet is flushed, and you go over to the sink.
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>The faucet is turned on full blast as you put your mouth underneath it; greedily gulping down mouthfuls of water.
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>It aids a little in soothing the ache in your throat.
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>You shut off the faucet, then look at yourself in the mirror.
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>A strong flinch is earned in return.
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>Ghastly, that’s the word that best describes your current appearance.
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>If anypony were to see this, they’d probably mistaken you for a bum, if not for some very sickly pony.
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>The latter is far closer to the truth than you’d like to admit.
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>You breath out a deep sigh through your nostrils, then do what you can to hide the horror.
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>By the time you return to the stage, there is virtually no pony there.
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>One of the few others left rushes passed you with, “Hey, can you finish things up? Thanks.”
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>Knew that would happen, it always does.
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>Not like you’d say no, though.
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>While going about your duties, you can feel the occasional glance from the other remaining ponies.
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>They know what the director said.
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>And they know what you were doing in the restroom.
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>This is judgment, for you are in the wrong always.
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>If they don’t say it straight to your face, then it’s spoken behind your back.
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>However, whatever is said is true.
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>All of it.
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>No pony cares about you, or what you think.
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>A large lump forms in your throat, making it hard to breath.
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>You squeeze your eyes shut, and try to swallow it down.
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>Though it takes mere seconds, it might as well have been an hour.
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>Once free, you return back your duties.
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>Need to be thinking about something else to distract yourself from all of this.
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>Like what to do once you get home.
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>Maybe work on a song?
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>Doubt it will go anywhere, and it will likely end up just being another cover of one again.
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>Better than nothing.
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>As you’re sweeping up, there’s a strange silence in the air.
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>Stopping, you take a look around and see why.
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>There is no pony else here.
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>You’re alone.
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>Like usual.
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>…
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>The walk home is long, but remains mostly quiet.
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>More or less used to this by now, especially when it’s the middle of the afternoon.
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>Feels as though the world itself is watching, judging at this time.
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>Wouldn’t doubt if it was.
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>Since the day you were born, you were always a screw up to be judged by any and all.
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>Nothing changed when you became old enough to be considered a stallion.
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>So judgment has remained a constant, honest truth throughout your life.
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>Such thoughts lead to certain places.
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>In particular, a path once traveled before.
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>There’s a sudden ache upon your neck.
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>Have to stop a moment to touch the area gingerly.
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>Just beneath your bandanna, is the memory.
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>Can never deal with it in public, never should either.
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>Continuing on, it isn’t much further that you arrive home.
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>As the door closes behind you, you weakly call out just as you always do.
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“I’m back.”
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>Not a single answer in return however, not that there ever would be.
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>After all, who would ever want to be with something so pathetic like yourself?
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>Only a sigh of acceptance is said in reply.
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>You enter your bedroom, and take a seat on the edge of the bed.
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>Very slowly, you slither your hooves up to the bandanna around your neck, then to the back.
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>The knot there is carefully undone, with a chill that runs throughout your body.
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>Doing this always feels like a body part is being removed.
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>In way, it is.
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>But it must happen.
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>No matter what.
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>With the cloth removed, there is a coolness on the space where it once was.
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>You trace a hoof along your neck.
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>Don’t need a mirror to know what lies there.
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>The image is forever in your mind – a large pale scar.
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>It’s a reminder of that night, so many years ago.
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>Each and every day, it is there to say what you did then and there.
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>What terrifies you the most, is that you often consider doing it again.
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>However, you’d no doubt survive, just as you did the first time around.
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>Never understood how that happened, yet it somehow, you did.
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>Regret is there eternal, the greatest regret in your life.
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>Not doing what you did however.
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>But surviving.
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>Shouldn’t think about that.
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>Can’t think about that.
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>Won’t think about that.
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>You pick up your acoustic guitar form nearby.
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>A few notes play quietly in your room as you strum some chords.
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>They’re followed by a few more.
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>From there, a song beings to play inside your head.
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>You readjust your hold, and attempt to perform that wonderful, beautiful song to the best of your ability.
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~don’t leave home, again~
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~if empathy takes energy~
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~’cause everyone feels just like you~
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~but that’s life, it’s so social~
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~but that’s life, it’s so social~
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~but that’s life, it’s so social~
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~so physical~
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~but that’s life, it’s so so-so~
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~so emotional~
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~so, stay home~
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>The last of the outro echoes for a little while throughout your room, and into your home.
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>Your grip begins to slack in the following silence.
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>You set aside the instrument, and hold your head in your hooves as it grows heavy.
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>Some droplets of pain from within start to leak forth.
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>In turn, they slowly become a hot stream that makes its way down your cheeks, then fall freely.
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>Still, there is no sound, just continued silence.
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>Because that part that made the sound is long gone.
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>It was cut out the day the scar was birthed.
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>Things went wrong today.
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>Things always go wrong.
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>That’s normal.
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>That’s you.
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>You are always full of Mellow Drama.
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>This is life, your life.
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>And it is endured from day to day.
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>Whether it be here at home, or in the theater upon the stage, it matters not.
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>Drama is there.
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>Drama is here.
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>It always will be.
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>Always.
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon
by NHanon