the 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎 of the 𝘾𝙇𝙊𝙒𝙉

「 one 」

Did ever feel like you grew tired from doing the things you ever loved?

Because I do and it feels like I'm unable to grow up.

I never understood why I am like this? I had no dreams. I had no passion.

How did those great persons keep the dream inside of them? How could they hope? How could they be passionate about it?

Just like the greatest ballerinas I admired. I loved how they danced; the graceful movements they gave were smooth and suppled.

Thus, it was my reason why in a very young age, I approached my parents to enroll in a ballerina school. They approved it.

Every step was never easy, of course, but it was fine. I practiced, practiced, and practiced. I practiced a lot, because, at that time, I knew what passion meant.

Like the ragged saying: to express but not to impress.

There were a lot of recitals I played in such a young age. The only devastating for me—as a child having a soft heart—was never had been my parents watched any of my performances.

But it didn't bother me. I loved what was I doing. Why I had to need a two single existence, when I had hundreds of people who would appreciate my dance?

Applauses, cheers, and admirations—they were more than enough to keep me going. Those smiles filled with awes that painted in every face; the unwavering support; those sweet words made me motivated to dance even more.

I had a bright enthusiasm, beautiful courage, and optimistic mind.

There might be some hated me, but I didn't care, because I knew that there would be people would defend me. The love they were giving me was the reason to work harder.

I got older and became a teenager, I would still look up with the greatest ballerinas in history.

I grew up watching them non-stop—repeatedly and continuously over the period of time. Watching how they danced; on how they danced as if the wind and water were with them. Each move was light, like a gentle flower that touched everyone's hearts.

Despite how they depicted a sweetness and lightness motions, I observed the dark sides they embraced inside.

They were beautiful while expressing their anxieties. The way I visualized them, they conjured an array of fantasies and delusions. The best part of it was they could show a poetic way of conveying beautiful transformations that had gone wrong.

Everything was a work of abstract, hiding dark emotions while letting the audience decipher their true selves.

That was I became as I grew up—eighteen of years existing in this world full of grey—it was the time when I discovered how the real world cycled.

The words I was receiving were not as inspiring as it was. They were empty. They were words masked with lies and touches of sarcasm! It was as if they were obligated to tell those fake words and made me believe with the pure lies.

No one could take responsibility for why I feel nothing whenever I danced.

I turned around . . . turning around and around. I got tired from turning, breathing faltered.

I faced the nothing but the turnings—the repeating cycles!

I wondered if I had ever been happy. People would tell me how lucky I was . . . Having a great talent, great family, and great lifestyle. Nobody would ever notice that I was already in the brink of insanity on how would I practice my smiles!

Ah, whatever, then.

Every single thing didn't even matter. No one would ever notice on how much I grieved in my bed, trying to apprehend my own existence.

Within them . . . within myself, I was surely a clown—the harlequin they only wanted for their own entertainment.

Then let it be.

Let me be the clown who always twist the lies as my reason for living.

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🎪 HandTheirEnd