Thought process through and after a heartbreaking season. Review and critique would be greatly appreciated.
When it's dark, you let yourself think out of control again— that wild, reckless dreaming and mindless desire, the one that consumed your thoughts for months on end. Your eyes are staring past the stadium crowd, mallets hanging loosely in your grip, your ears buzzing with the thrashing pound of the battery's pulse.
You can't help but think what it would've been like— if you had found this love for music before you entered your freshman year. Things could've been different.
(then again, they might've never changed.)
You would still have a sharply edged mind, a slender body, and a drive embedded deep within your heart that races quietly, quietly, quietly. This is something you want, something you need, the very thing you dream of fitfully at night; a bass drum perched against your chest— completely, exuberantly, happy.
You figure that if you work until your hands blister and if your mind is imprinted with exercises and cadences, you will win what you long for so desperately. That maybe, practicing for hours on end, every day, will rewrite your place in the drumline.
But when you think of May, you remember how the list didn't contain your name and feeling your heart crash soundlessly to the floor. How you see your friends ecstatic, screaming and smiling, calling their brothers, their mothers, their friends.
The way you sobbed into his kind embrace.
When it's dark and the stadium is echoing with sound, you remember how much you wanted to be out on the field with the people who left you standing in front of the fifty-yard line. The girls who represent the heart of the band.
How you wish things could've been different.
(You wish things could be exactly the same.)