and it seems that all I am is fear, anymore, a silhouette of joy and peace, its filling made of terror. this is too melodramatic for the reality of the situation. this is not a fear of something tangible--there is nothing hiding in my closet or under my bed, no danger that whispers close to me and threatens my life or my well-being. it is only the fear of the future and sometimes I fear it will threaten my sanity. I'm looking at dozens of colleges for musical theatre and all I can hear is, what if? what if I audition and I don't make it? what if I don't make it into a single school and I am suddenly the girl who auditioned for 12 schools and made none of them and still foolishly thinks that she is going to pursue a career in musical theatre? what if I attend a school of lesser renown without an audition and train for four years, only to discover upon graduation that I did not cultivate the skills necessary to propel me into a career? what if I have a successful career for ten, twenty years, and then find myself at age fifty with no roles and no chance? what if? what if what if what if what if what if

there is an anxious bird at my ribcage, in my throat, in my stomach. I try to cup it in my hands, suppress it at my fingertips, quiet the rapid pitterpatterpulse.

I quiet it. it rediscovers its wings. it raises its head and squints into the darkness and flies into the unknown, because it has to, because there is nowhere else to go but forward.

so will I.

aren't I supposed to take refuge in words? I find myself staring at blank paper or blank screen because I'm unable or afraid to write. I dread what used to bring me my profoundest joy and greatest relief. someone could be reading this. someone could be judging me. someone could be laughing.

I am afraid.

and it seems that all I am is fear, anymore, a silhouette of joy and peace, its filling made of terror. this is too melodramatic for the reality of the situation. this is not a fear of something tangible--there is nothing hiding in my closet or under my bed, no danger that whispers close to me and threatens my life or my well-being. it is only the fear of the future and sometimes I fear it will threaten my sanity. I'm looking at dozens of colleges for musical theatre and all I can hear is, what if? what if I audition and I don't make it? what if I don't make it into a single school and I am suddenly the girl who auditioned for 12 schools and made none of them and still foolishly thinks that she is going to pursue a career in musical theatre? what if I attend a school of lesser renown without an audition and train for four years, only to discover upon graduation that I did not cultivate the skills necessary to propel me into a career? what if I have a successful career for ten, twenty years, and then find myself at age fifty with no roles and no chance? what if? what if what if what if what if what if

there is an anxious bird at my ribcage, in my throat, in my stomach. I try to cup it in my hands, suppress it at my fingertips, quiet the rapid pitterpatterpulse.

I quiet it. it rediscovers its wings. it raises its head and squints into the darkness and flies into the unknown, because it has to, because there is nowhere else to go but forward.

so will I.

aren't I supposed to take refuge in words? I find myself staring at blank paper or blank screen because I'm unable or afraid to write. I dread what used to bring me my profoundest joy and greatest relief. someone could be reading this. someone could be judging me. someone could be laughing.

I am afraid.