A Feeling Of Sentimentality.

When someone you love dies, it feels like the world is crashing down.
 

Nothing someone says to you can cheer you up; and everything people do brings you down.
 

You realise that there's nothing you can do to bring that person back, and you find yourself snapping at people who tell you that "they understand how you feel" when in reality, no one does but yourself.
 

For ages you go through the seven stages of grief: shock; denial; bargaining; guilt; anger; depression; then finally, acceptance and hope.

"No matter how much you want the world to stop, it keeps turning."

A few people go to therapy. A few dedicate the next couple of months to that person, from visiting the grave weekly to making collages full of that dead friend's face - to remember the good times - you'll tell yourself. But the real reason is so that you can't stand the thought of forgetting how that person used to look.

The remaining people just trudge on through life, knowing that that space inside them will be empty forever, but eventually put to the side.

Then comes the sad truth that we all eventually realise. No matter how much you want the world to stop, it keeps turning. There's still letters in the mail; a pet that needs to be fed; a dishwasher that still doesn't work; homework that needs to be completed. It's just the sad sad truth when you feel like your life is like an island in an ocean of diarrhea.

Encore.

The hardest part is waiting. Everyone has those jitters and no one can quite keep still; yet everybody is still motionless enough to keep an ear out for the first of many people arriving on the other side of the curtain. No-one’s allowed to take a peek at the audience, although I’ve seen a few doing it while the producer isn’t looking.
There are so many people much more nervous than me though. The proof is on everyone’s faces – and in the side stage “chunder bucket”.

There are kids sitting on the risers with scripts in their hands – merely repeating that tricky little sentence of dialogue that gets them every time. At centre stage are the choreographers with the younger kids – showing them just how to turn and silently yelling at little Justin who waited until opening night to tell them he doesn’t know the chorus movement.

I walk out the side door and head towards the dressing rooms, holding my breath as I walk past two very attractive seniors having their last cigarettes for the night. I soon immediately become thankful to the make-up ladies for applying blush, as the blonde one winks at me. I duck my head and keep on moving. “Curtains open in 10 minutes” I hear someone in the background yell.

"The proof is on everyone’s faces – and in the side stage chunder bucket."

The hallway to the change rooms are in a fury – there is a young girl crying in a phone, screaming to her mother that she had had her costume when they had gotten into the car. A boy about twice my size is holding singing warm ups for those soloists who need the last minute tune-up before the big night, yet most of the notes I hear are not ones I would pay to listen to.
There are people rushing past me with shoes half on grabbing their stage props as they go – these guys obviously have mic-checks before the show. I shake my head and give a smile at my friend Denise who, as always, has made another huge hole in her tan stockings, and is busily trying to stop the rip with clear nail polish.

I finally make it to the female dressing room, where the chaos was surprisingly at its minimum. I smell the toasty warmness of the hot chocolate on the bench, and the entire universe can hear the welfare lady urging us to put jackets over our costumes before we all “catch pneumonia”.
I can see good luck cards and bouquets of roses all over the place, mainly from eager parents wishing their child good luck.
It all reminds me of my kindergarten jazz recital – the first time any of us had been on stage. I can still remember the sea of families grinning up at us, proud that their child doesn’t have to watch the instructor doing the movement below the stage.

Then there’s that voice again that brings me back into the present: “Curtain opens in two minutes people! If you’re not down there now then you’re not on stage!”
My long Victorian skirt swishes along the floor as I collect the final prop from my bag – a lacy cardboard fan – and race back up to the stage. I can hear the orchestra start their overture that makes the crowd more anxious to get the show started. I take the hand held microphone from the tech team and walk to the middle of the stage. The stage lights dim immediately as the audience applauses the band, and the dancers take their places behind me. I take a breath and get ready to sing my heart out and steal the show.

The curtain opens, and the heat of the spotlight on my face is amazing, and the watchful gazes from the audience is so intensifying, that the moment is truly perfected when I open my fan and see the words written in the scrawl of that blonde senior boy;
"Break A Leg"


[This was a descriptive piece I wrote for English]

Graffiti Rant.

Hello fellow readers I'm back! :)

Thought I'd write another ranting blog. Probably one not as controversial as my previous post haha.

Well every day on the bus to school we go past so much graffiti and it really pisses me off when I see the men with their little vans scrubbing all the paint off walls. I'm not pissed that they're removing it - I'm pissed that there is actually a need for those kinds of jobs to exist!

And what do these lads n lasses actually achieve from tagging everything huh? Do they think they are so cool because they sneak out in the early hours of the morning with their lil spray cans n "tekkies" or whatever. Most these kids are probably shit at school and this is all they have. But seriously. If they pulled their heads out of the ground and just TRIED to understand, then their grades would improve and they might actually have a good future. One that doesn't involve a fast food frier all their lives, prostitution or even the jerk who never says "have a nice day" at the toll booths on the highway.

"Not that they're probably bragging about every lil texta mark they're making on a school desk"

And okay, I'll admit: the graffiti art on the train lines are reeallly cool sometimes when they're all coloured and awesomified. But no one ever "awed" over some stupid "212 boyz" tag on a street pole. It's ridiculous and kind of embarrassing for anyone in the pennant hills suburb actually. Do this "gang" think they are like the bomb because they're too cowardly to come out and say "oh by the way, we're the douche-bags that are making pennant hills look like a dog kennel". Not that they're probably bragging about every lil texta mark they're making on a school desk.

And wat's with PMK? Lol they're so stupid they think they're amazing because they write their work everywhere. But they're the under-dogs and even if I was given money to join, I still wouldn't become one of them because I'd just be embarrassed to be seen with a bunch of loser nobodys who are going to wind up with jobs that no one wants. Haha "Penno's Most Korupt"? Learn to spell ;)

And I also understand that some of these poor kids do actually have fucked up families/parentals with aggression and all that jazz and sure maybe they have an excuse but come on - it doesn't always have to resort to this kind of thing! You can bunk in with friends, see counselors, etc. And talking about family issues even to close friends makes a difference. Just don't tag okay people? It's silly :)

Sorry if this bulletin has insulted you because you think you are an awesome tagger. But this is my blog and frankly - I don't care :)

xx Dannie