His hands were shaking. And sweaty. This is what he feared most. It was always the main source of his grief.
He gripped the back of the neck, tighter. He instinctively swallowed and looked up. The lights were blinding. He wondered if he looked as nervous as he felt. He kept forcing that smile.
But, he knew he could do it. He'd put in the time, the dedication and effort. This was his time to show what he had, to arouse people's interest; if not that, then at least make them turn their heads. It was finally time. The crowd quietened down and he looked down. He knew what he was doing. He was in his element; this WAS his element.
Time now turned into a blur and his mind took on a strange course; on one hand he was intensely focused on what he was doing, yet on the other hand, he might have been unconscious, mind on cruise control.
Fragments of sound flew, twisted sonically by him and his tool. Lightning fast shards of electricity darted around the room and his hands, all the while effortlessly gliding, executing hundreds of small tasks in milliseconds, possessed the grace of a swan. Climbing higher and higher, to the climax of the event, he kept focus. One small misplacement of a finger, a minute lapse in concentration and it would be over. But he had ingrained so well the method in his mind, that he knew he would not falter. Faster and faster he moved, locking down tighter on to the beat. Then, with a mechanical screech, it ended; he lifted his tool, his sword, his guitar.
submitted at 1:42am
20 February 2009