Throw cares away
Like I have time for writing in this anymore. If there is one skill I wish I could obtain, it would be time management. If I would be one of those people who gets work done the day it's assigned, be able to rip all relaxation from me until I was finished, the whole reward for work theory. I go about it backwards, living by the saying "Life is short, eat dessert first."
My hands are jittery, but not from excitement. It feels like I just took a big test that judges my worth as a human, and failed. I'm dreading everything now. French is too boring. AP is frightful. I'm forced to make a fool of myself in theater. Ensemble makes me feel like a terrible person. Spin, drop. Toss, drop. Catch...no, I lied, drop. And even thought it hurts me so much, I still find some sort of solace in it. Stretching shouldn't be allowed to end, and neither should sabre block. I want my flag to curl up and die, however, and I share the same sentiment for dance basics.
I have to wonder about the Hawkettes though. I grimace across the gym at Rich, body language spelling out that I couldn't be more angered. I watch our team try to dance, leap or do a turn, and our skill varies so much. This girl can do a triple pirouette like it's no big thing, this girl hasn't mastered jazz running. I'm somewhere in the limbo land, not terrible, but not so hot either. I get by. But how is it that the Hawkettes can look like a single unit, breathing and moving together, when we work so much harder than them, beaten up and bruised, and they can look like that? As much as I grind my teeth, balling my hands into tight fists with a sneer, I have to admit it. They're good. They can dance.
I want one day where there is nothing scheduled, or planned, or necessary to accomplish. Even once the trimester ended, I worried about AP, about practice, about the new one beginning. I want an hour or so to myself, to not have anything on my mind. Something ends, but something else which causes me to be even more neurotic comes along, pushing and prodding and haunting me. Me first, it says. Sleep isn't important, you shouldn't be reading, stop procrastinating and start getting your ass in gear. I'm not used to failing at things. No, I understand, a B isn't failing. A better way to put it would be, I'm not used to being challenged. I've never really been challenged before this year. For all that I bitch and yell about, "oh-poor-me-I'm-the-injured-party", I really have nothing to fret over. Life was laid out like a map, but now it's outdated and this such-and-such road doesn't exist anymore, causing me to have to forge a new pathway. I'm not used to that.
My hands are jittery, but not from excitement. It feels like I just took a big test that judges my worth as a human, and failed. I'm dreading everything now. French is too boring. AP is frightful. I'm forced to make a fool of myself in theater. Ensemble makes me feel like a terrible person. Spin, drop. Toss, drop. Catch...no, I lied, drop. And even thought it hurts me so much, I still find some sort of solace in it. Stretching shouldn't be allowed to end, and neither should sabre block. I want my flag to curl up and die, however, and I share the same sentiment for dance basics.
I have to wonder about the Hawkettes though. I grimace across the gym at Rich, body language spelling out that I couldn't be more angered. I watch our team try to dance, leap or do a turn, and our skill varies so much. This girl can do a triple pirouette like it's no big thing, this girl hasn't mastered jazz running. I'm somewhere in the limbo land, not terrible, but not so hot either. I get by. But how is it that the Hawkettes can look like a single unit, breathing and moving together, when we work so much harder than them, beaten up and bruised, and they can look like that? As much as I grind my teeth, balling my hands into tight fists with a sneer, I have to admit it. They're good. They can dance.
I want one day where there is nothing scheduled, or planned, or necessary to accomplish. Even once the trimester ended, I worried about AP, about practice, about the new one beginning. I want an hour or so to myself, to not have anything on my mind. Something ends, but something else which causes me to be even more neurotic comes along, pushing and prodding and haunting me. Me first, it says. Sleep isn't important, you shouldn't be reading, stop procrastinating and start getting your ass in gear. I'm not used to failing at things. No, I understand, a B isn't failing. A better way to put it would be, I'm not used to being challenged. I've never really been challenged before this year. For all that I bitch and yell about, "oh-poor-me-I'm-the-injured-party", I really have nothing to fret over. Life was laid out like a map, but now it's outdated and this such-and-such road doesn't exist anymore, causing me to have to forge a new pathway. I'm not used to that.