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The rising sun shines pink through my window. It resembles the colour of the pink roses on my desk, and shines through the soft petals of the flower. The sunlight barely warms the spot where it reaches on my pillow, but it does not matter. I am cold, and my fingertips hurt with the chill of my assigned room. Below my comforter, my body is a rigid ball of nerves. I have been awake since four a.m. when my mind started to race with the possibilities of today. The dreams of last night, of reaching fingers and spotlights, are chased away by golden sun beams.
When my mother had left two days ago, after helping me arrange my room, I'd clung a bit tighter to her, inhaling her familiar scent. Normally, she would not have allowed it, but fear keeps her company, the idea of being a new role - a talentless woman with a talentless daughter. She will be alone. My hand fisted her blazer as I hid my face in her neck, while she rubbed my back, pressing a kiss in my hair. We did not exchange words of motivation, of love, but enjoyed the shared silence. I was left staring through the window when the car disappeared through the main gates, down the mountain.
I was scared. I still am.
It has been a while since I've been in the company of my peers, and the idea that I will have to teach them, had me trembling. So this morning, while lying in my bed awake, I forced these concerns away by looking around my room. Dozens of candles lay scattered across the surfaces of my room, on top of my desk and dresser, and even on the low windowsills. I have a deep appreciation for these items, especially scented ones. Old ballet books and vinyl cases are carefully stacked in the ancient bookcase given to me by the school, some leaning to their side as they have no support. My first pair of flats, gifted to me by my mother and sister, hang down the doorknob from a single ribbon. A vinyl player I had spoilt myself with back in Paris, sits on the corner of my desk, waiting to play a melody. Pots with plants reach into the sky, waiting for the sun's morning bliss.
The room does not yet feel like mine, but I don't feel welcome in it. I feel like a passing traveller, barely bothering to collect dust on the tips of my shoulders.
The small alarm clock on my nightstand shows that it's nearly 6 in the morning, so I force myself to sit up straight and swing my legs over the edge of my bed. With a stretch of my arms, my bones pop and turn, and my muscles pull into a comfortable position. I crack my knuckles together and bend down to pull my toes together backwards until soft pops can be heard. Taking the rolled-up yoga mat from underneath my bed, I take the time to do my stretches.
Outside, the soft rumblings of staff members waking up for the first day, assure me that I am indeed awake. I don't feel as taken aback by the idea that I'll be sharing a floor with teachers and other staff members, but I know that it is not something that I'll share with classmates. Not that I am planning on socialising with any of them, I am here merely to get an education, not to make friends.
Besides, look how making friends helped me.
The sun shines brightly today, welcoming the new school year. After rolling my yoga mat back up, I grow a new-found appreciation for my private bathroom. That is something I will not miss from the student floors. The songs of Dalila plays on my record player, motivating me for the day. While showering, I find myself staring at the white tiles with golden detail in them, making shapes from the thin lines. This gives me time to rethink my schedule for the day. So much of our classes revolve around the arts, even subtly so. For example, World History - one of my first modules for the day - seems inconspicuous within itself. Until you read through the syllabus and realize that World History evolves around the history surrounding the arts. This worries me, as one day when you're rendered useless, in a business setting, you'll be able to recite all of Tchaikovsky's compositions but not a single fact about the Great Depression.
