I don't know what I want to say. I knew I blew it. I knew it wasn't happening. People can say all they want through common courtesy that they thought I did well; we all know I didn't.
For once I'd like to be able to show that I have the talent I apparently have. People tell me I can act, people tell me I'm great. Then why doesn't my resume say so? Why don't I have a list of leads that say without speaking that I have skill?
I know I'm not a singer, and I wouldn't mind so much if all the world around me, all the people I interact with, weren't either. I don't want to "face the music", I want to forget this ever happened. I don't want to live all of next year thinking, "Maybe if I'd just practiced a little more. Maybe if I hadn't wasted my life. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe."
If only, if only, the woodpecker cried...
Hand me the box of tissues, and pass me the water and Advil, because this headache and this heartache aren't going away too soon.
"Every so often we long to steal/ to the land of what might have been.
But that doesn't soften the ache we feel/ when reality sets back in...
Don't wish./ Don't start./ Wishing only wounds the heart."
-I'm Not That Girl, Wicked
It's like my grandmother once said, "If only desire was enough." If only talent had nothing to do with it. Then you could have it; then you'd be alright.
I'll be okay, eventually. I feel my heart stitching itself back together already. But you can't bleed for less than a day and expose your wound to salt and expect it not to sting. Sadly, tomorrow I'll be surrounded by salt; there's nothing I can do about it.
But I'll do what I always do and break down inside. You won't see it, you won't know, but that salt is stinging and it's stinging hard. And come tomorrow night as I lay staring at the ceiling, that salt will visit me again as water pools down my cheek.
I can accept it and agree, here on my own, but with the eyes of my peers I'm certain I'll feel moronic.
Perhaps I'll invest in a Dunce hat.
But we can cross out "Dunce" and write "Failure."