don’t let go too soon, but don’t hang on too long.
--- m. albom
★
( + april schedule ; peek-a-boo promotions. )
she’s light-headed, finding herself losing her breath quicker and easier---is the world spinning, or is that just her head?---than usual. she’s dizzy, eyes rapidly blinking to fend off the invasive and obnoxious rays of stage lights that beat away at aching headache.
fifty-two schedules in nearly a week, and she only has twelve hours of sleep notched onto her belt to prove it---the success, that is, the overcompensation. the dedication. her eyelids are heavy, struggling to remain open when falling into unconscious seems so tempting at such an inconvenient time as this one.
her mind scoffs at such a suggestion, though.
you can sleep when you’re dead, hyera.
only a mere seven days have passed since the release of their single; a peak at the top third position on the charts, and still steadily rising with each second that passes. her lullabies are the increasing numbers in views, listens, streams---her happiness relies on the multiplication of social media shares and music show nominations. do they realize it, the hard work? the long nights and exhaustive mornings of recording studio and practice room sleepovers?
you’d think that she’d be giddy, would be proud.
instead, she is just tired.
exhausted, even.
she forgets the last time she’s enjoyed the soft comfort of her own bed, draws a blank on whether or not she’s even had a shower in the past fourty-eight hours; douses her roots with enough dry shampoo and leave-in conditioner to persuade herself otherwise. fills her stomach with the empty fumes of caffeine pills and water, convinces herself that, in an industry like this, being hungry remains an immense benefit in more ways than one.
peek-a-boo
a fox who wants to have fun, that’s me
she’s lost count over how many times she’s sung such words in such a short time period, has long dismissed the idea that knowing lyrics are a such a necessity when they’re so engraved into her mind, ingrained into her very being for the next couple of months or so. her voice is hoarse, eases itself into the safety of silence and slumber with every performance; she’s sure they’ll notice her lip-syncing, her mismatched mouth movements with tone and pitch---though, she cares not when her energy is best spent in efforts elsewhere.
her muscles ache, joints sore---to extent, she’s guilty, yes, for lacking that same air of vigor at the time of their comeback---has she even smiled once in the past three minutes? and with such a microscopic gaze on her, with those cameras and microphones, she’s practically asking for a death wish if it were so)---nearly drops from exhaustion once the fade of the music and the eruption of claps and cheers fill the familiar auditorium.
and so the routine continues---catches her breath, bowes to the audience, peels at the tape sticking onto her cheek the second she steps off the stage---adds in the slight divergence of stumbling on the steps on her way down. others gasp around her, wonder if she’s okay, and she waves them off; for she’s far too busy to worry herself with such concerns like these.
she’s tired, yes, but she’s not dead.
and, thus, onto the next.
