You walk out onto the stage.

It’s quiet, dark.
But not to you.

To you, the audience is buzzing with criticisms,

Judging you before they can even see your face.

To you, your castmates are teasing you from beyond the wings,

Making bets on how early you would mess up.

To you, the entire world is staring at you,

Waiting for you to make a move.

When you mess up, it’s not unexpected.

Everyone could tell you were nervous.

Backstage, they tell you it happens to everybody,

That it’s only the first mistake of many.

That you just need to get over it.
That the show must go on.

You walk out onto the stage.

It’s quiet, dark.

You stand in your place, a small, tape “X” glowing as if it marks a treasure.

The audience grows silent as the curtains are pulled back,

But you didn't hear them to begin with.

You see, now, when you walk out onto the stage, the world stops.

You unknowingly block out everything.

Your worries fade away under the strong glare of the showlight.

Your ears clog up, the only audible noises being the ones flowing out of your castmate’s mouth,

Setting you up so that you can deliver your lines flawlessly and smoothly.

You start sweating, not knowing if it was the nerves getting to you, the heat radiating off of the spotlight shining down on you, or some combination of both.

The audience is silent. Backstage is silent. Everything is silent.

The show has started.

You walk out onto the stage,

Knowing that an entire audience is watching you.

But you can’t think of that.

You can’t think of how you could stumble over your words

Or how you could trip and fall, seemingly on nothing, because you get clumsy when you’re nervous.

You can’t think of how embarrassing it would be if you messed up,

How the children in the audience would laugh cruelly, playing the villain in your own personal show.

You can’t think of what it would be like to forget your lines, because if you do, it will happen.

So you don’t.

You think instead, “I am going to kill this performance.”

You think instead, “This will be the best show I have ever been in.”

You think instead, “This is what I want.”

Because it is.

You walk out onto the stage, filled with adrenaline.

This is your night, you tell yourself.

You act with passion, the watchful eyes of the people below you only fueling the fire in your being, poking the coals of your excitement.

You inflict joy, sadness, longing, and fear onto the house,

Feeling more powerful with every twist and turn the plot takes.
You know that this is what you want to do,

You know that this is where you want to be.

You walk out onto the stage.

It’s quiet. Dark.

But this time, it’s not serene.

It’s not calming.

The atmosphere closes around you, suffocating you with regret.

You don’t sense the familiar rush of adrenaline that roars through you right before the curtain opens.

Instead, you feel empty.

You feel broken.

Because you know that this is your last night performing.

You give it your all, though.

You fight with fury, you act with fervor.

You make a lasting performance not only for the audience,

But for you as well.

Because you knew this whole time,

It didn’t matter if the audience was watching.

Because the only person you did it all for was you.

You walk out onto the stage.

The house is empty.

Everyone went home.

The world is quiet.

But this time,

It’s not all in your head.