There is no feeling,
Quite like the moments before you step on stage,
In front of a packed house,

Your stage director looks at you and says,
30 seconds to curtain,

Your pulse quickens,
And your palms begin to sweat a little,
You take a deep breath to try to calm your nerves,
As you run over your lines one last time,
So you have them just perfect,

There’s the faint whisper of the other actors behind you,
But you don’t hear them,
All you can hear is the sound of your heart,
Pounding in your chest,
Making the blood rush past your eardrums,

Each contraction of that muscle in your chest,
Is the sound of a beating drum,
Calling you to action,
Calling you to once more take up your task,
And ply your craft,
Your trade,
Your art

The thought crosses your mind,
Why am I here?
We are called,
Pulled by something buried in our souls,
That tells us we must go out,
And be the ones to hold the mirror to society,
And show them what they are,

Five seconds until the fun begins,
And here you are,
The final few Break-A-Leg’s are called,
And without warning,

The lights are up,
That final rush of adrenaline courses through you veins,
Your legs seem to move almost as if on their own,
And you walk proudly onto that stage,
Head up,
Shoulders back,
There’s no room for meekness here,

It’s show time.