Of Life and Dreams

"Excuse me, do you know where the backstage is?" The woman asking is looking down on him. Not
because the blonde haired woman is a snob, it is just because he is simply crouching. He has been
looking for a his stamp that rolled down under the first row of audience seats. His action of crouching
still and not moving probably originates from his surprise of the presence of another human being so
early in the morning. He himself arrives not five minutes ago and his watch tells him that it is no latter
than 6.15 in the morning. People should still be asleep, and here he is, crouching next to a lean woman
in all black sport attire, which reminds him, he is still, in fact, crouching. He looks down, collects himself
and hoping his easily blushing cheeks to tone their self down, it is very rude to stare at beautiful
stranger that need simple directions, more so if he does it while crouching and looking up for what it
feels like minutes -it actually happened for a couple seconds, but people tend to get lost track of time
when their brain is whirring for comprehension of something which they don't particularly expect,
more so if it is something embarrassing.

"Ah, um," he says, straightening up. He brushes his dusty knees from kneeling earlier on the dirty floor
and wonder the woman probably doesn't think anything of his state of clothing. She just wants a
simple direction to the backstage. "It's just down that hall on the left of the stage. You'll find a wooden
door, quite heavy- I don't know why they made it heavy. Most people who use it are dancers whom
not known for their strength." A laugh; only from him. An awkward pause and it is not the first time
he wish a hole will appear and swallows him whole.

The woman, bless her, doesn't react to his flaming cheeks and smile genially. "Thank you," she says,
parting goodbye.

He looks on her retreating back. It is ramrod straight and she doesn't walk down the stairs. No, she
glides. There is a certain grace in her steps that seems fluid, almost feline but with the certain power
in her movements, much like those he sees every weekend up the stage. New member? He doesn't
recognise her.

Must be some top school member of ballet community that he can't even pronounce the name of. His
certitude is not baseless, as he works for the company who owns the theatre. He is the theatre
accountant, hence the looking for stamps so early in the morning. He needs the stamp for his meeting
with a business associate whom requires a renewal of contract. He was preparing the contract just
this morning when he realised the stamp was not in place. Then here he is, staring at the back of a
possible future star on the stage. She looks stunning too; high cheek bone and golden blond hair tied
into a neat bun on top of her head which elongates her slim neck. Even walking her shoulder is poised.

Putting his stamp into his back, he rolls back his shoulder, straightening his back. A small smile adorns
his face as he remember his exhausted flop to bed every night a few years ago. When he took morning
classes- the earliest- for his accounting class just to have his afternoon free so he could catch the train
to where his dance class would be held. As a student with full scholarship of a prestigious school he
managed to get a more than decent dorm. He was then paired with another student with full
scholarship as a room mate whom was delightfully quiet. It seemed quiet came second as a trait for
such students after diligence. With cafeteria ready to serve free omelette and sausage at any hour
given you could cook for yourself in the common kitchen and comfortable lounge room adjacent to
school's library, the place was more than decent. Unfortunately, for Henry who was poor enough to
eat only free omelette and sausages during the weeks and occasionally treated himself to nutritious
meal once in a while, the dorm was located in the town's finer neighbourhood. The one where you
could walk down the pavement only to bump into people from all over the city looking for a photo
spot because the houses looked nice, and if you walked further would find many high end shops which
attract the kind of people who thought of money as something that happened to them. This made his
searching for a dance course difficult as he obviously couldn't afford the ones around his dorm. Hence
his travel to the down town everyday by bus. It took 45 minutes ride and a 15 minutes walk to get to
his class. The tuition was a bit more than he could pay so he worked part time at the shop near his
class. His shift ended around 8 p.m. so he took the night classes.

It was a modern dance class. Three hour of dancing should be exhausting for some people after a shift
full of complaining customer and shitty tips but he only thought of it as liberating. You may ask why
go such length when he already got a scholarship for a promising future. Well, his answer was always
vague. He couldn't exactly explain his row with his parents of his career choice and choosing to be a
good son to a stranger, could he? Reminded him too much of the possibility of a closed door when he
went to his hometown if he actually did pursue a career in dancing even after receiving his bachelor
degree. Yet it was his dream. His degree is a paper that he owed to his parents but surely his life after
was not a timeline his parents would want a total control to write, wasn't it?

So he danced. He practiced till his friends, exhausted, sat down and sipped cold drink and chat. He
practiced till his teachers applauded and then his peers clapped encouragingly because when you saw
beauty you'd stare, but saw it paired with passion and actual heart pouring emotion, you would
certainly at least cheer.

And it was beautiful. His movement fluid and blend with the beat. Every sway, every flick of his wrist,
every spin was telling a story; of pain, of longing, of happiness.

There was always mirrors covering the walls in any dance class, it served as a personal evaluation of
their moves, of their expressions but to Henry it was the thing that showed him glimpse of his future;
his possible future. So he stared at it, everyday, on every eye contact he made while moving his entire
body along with whatever tale it was his teacher wanted to convey for the day, he would believe. For
a moment, the stage looked within reach.

Then the closed door became a reality that still hit him breathless. It came when his monthly
scholarship was held back due to his falling grade in one class. It was because of an essay he scrambled
together in four hour when it had credits weighed three quarter of the final. He had forgotten. Simply
because his teacher asked him to perform on a real stage, albeit small, as a lead dancer in a show of
his. It had been a kindness to introduce him to the world. He was beyond elated. Unfortunately storm
chose to reside above the town and only a quarter of the sold out seat were occupied. It flopped. It
didn’t register to him that the audience seemed awfully quiet, the word lead dancer was occupying
his mind for the entire show in big bold letter. He put his chin up, straightened his back, and danced.
His teacher would praise him days for his performance but the price it took for one single chance on
stage was too much. He asked money from his parents and was not met with warm hospitability. Crops
were failing due to changing weather and his parents along with three of his brother weren't doing
well either. He couldn't pay for his dance class and he understood his teacher was not paid that much
either so he wasn't surprise of his teacher's rejection of his plea to postpone the class tuition for a
month. He had no guarantee, after all, that he could pay.

Still, the bitterness that came from little money of what his parents could scraped for him haunted
him. He couldn't use it, not with the letter from his brother telling him what his family ate these days.
Two days of mulling over, he sent the money back. He quit his part time job down town and sought
for closer job. He quit dance class. He doubled his shift at the new restaurant he part timing in. Then
he studied; he studied harder than he was before.

The flop at the end of the day got more more exhausting but at the end of two excruciating month he
got his scholarship back. The joy he felt was not as uplifting as the elated feeling when he stepped out
of the curtain to the stage. When the butterfly of stage fright disappeared and the light that were
blinding turned reassuring; as music flowed through the room and he closed his eyes, not
remembering anything but the steps that seemed to be engrained on his limbs.

That night he didn't dance, he was depicting a tale.

The memory of that night still brought a little smile to his lips which soon turned into a stiff frown
when he berated himself for dreaming of a future he had no right to. He knew his place, which was
behind a desk, in front of a computer; typing.

A sense of nostalgia engulfs his chest; for a moment it is hard to breathe. On the top of the stairs, right
before a door with exit sign, he stands. He looks back to the empty stage and seats and smiles. The
place is still dark and without people applauding on the seats, without dancers filling the stage, it looks
like it's slumbering; waiting to be awakened to the first rehearsal of the day, waiting for people to go
about their way in it. Maybe it will soon wake up, as one of the dancer is clearly has arrived and is now
getting ready. She looks young so certainly she has a whole life ahead of her to pursue the title of main
dancer. Yet right now, it looks like a ghost of a dream; of what might have been. So he bows, he lowers
his head and buries those determination, those looks he had for years every time he looked at the
mirror; he bows for what once was his dream.

A beat, and he was standing; back straight, chin up, and there he goes. Through the door, towards his
reality.

Behind the curtain on the backstage, the woman dutifully mops away any dust and dirt she can find.
The stage manager surely won't have her work space, well his and other dancers’ work space, dirty.
She hums a familiar sound, a song which soon will be played during rehearsal. She peaks through the
heavy curtains, looking at the centre of the stage. Gingerly, she puts down her broom and walks to it,
to where she usually sees the main dancer bowing for the crowd after a work well done. It is dark so
she can't really make out the audience row but it is enough for her. She takes a stance, closes her eyes
and smiles; big smile.

In her head the light falls on her face just so, illuminating her feature; she is still breathless for she just
performed the most exquisite retelling of sleeping beauty and the crowd are standing, applauding,
someone brings flowers for her excellence performance.

She opens her eyes to darkness. No one is there to see her, so she goes back and fetch the broom.
There are so many things to do as a janitor anyway. So she sweeps, sweeps, and sweeps.

And life continues on.