My Act
After inhaling and exhaling deeply, I open my eyes and enter the stage. I’m wearing a black silken tutu and red ballet shoes. The tutu’s fabric is so light I can feel it floating while I make my way with perfect steps to center stage.
A light brighter than the sun illuminates my exact position. And this light follows my delicate moves. Light as my shadow, imitating movements coming from my soul. Besides the light, I see nothing. And it is pure magic.
I hear the smooth and enchanting sounds of Tchaikovsky far away. My heartbeat is pounding. It is so loud it almost cancels the music. I feel my heart pumping blood in an intergalactic speed, my veins already visible in my neck, showing all the power Tchaikovsky has over me.
Perfect posture, arms smoothly moving, framing a body graceful as a feather. Legs moving fast, flawlessly executing orchestrated and over-rehearsed steps. Exhausted, squeezed feet. Feet with perfect curvature, perfectly pointed, taking me from one side to the other, a bourrée en couru that will be forever remembered.
Arabesques, attitudes, battements and fouetté en tournants smoothly executed, making me the happiest ballerina alive. I do not smile because the act doesn’t allow me to, but my eyes sparkle and are filled with excitement. Anyone one can tell, just by watching me, that from the exact moment I enter the stage, I am filled with passion, with magic.
A couple more demi pliés, a few sous sous and more pirouettes fill the whole six minutes and twenty-five seconds of the mesmerizing Tchaikovsky piece. For the audience those minutes are probably fast, but for me, the minutes seem to stretch into hours, into days, into eternity. And I could feel every second of it with the deepest part of my soul. This is my final act and I want it to last forever.
I finish the piece with a long and beautiful reverence to my audience. I stand there, in front of the almost blinding stage light, waiting for someone to bring me flowers, waiting for the applause, waiting for the lights to slowly dim so I can finally see my audience and do two or three more reverences.
Without the applauses or flowers in my hands I noticed the light is suddenly gone, my silken black tutu replaced by an extra large promotional t-shirt. Instead of my ballet shoes, I am barefoot. Instead of standing in the middle of Bolshoi’s stage, I’m lying in bed, waking from fantasy, entering the real world. Instead of Tchaikovsky, the annoying sound of the alarm clock.
