Ballet School - The Ghost of a Dream
First light filters into the empty studio. Sunlight flickers on the mirrors, reflecting only a state of abandonment. The barre stands alone, deserted, with none to need its support.
Tutus hang forlorn in a row of tulle - a rainbow of pastel shades, illustrating the washed-out water-colour dreams of youth. Pointe shoes and leotards are packed away, like the forgotten dolls of childhood.
The satin slippers, made to conceal broken feet that dance on heavenly clouds but hurt like hell, are discarded in a tangle of pink ribbon.
No Swan Queen dances here; no Snowflake fairy spins in a vision of winter. The studio itself sleeps like Beauty, waiting for a new Aurora to arrive, as the last cry of a Dying Swan fades away to nothing.
All is silent as dust motes spin in the golden haze, like the lost ballerinas of yesteryear. The air is thick with dreams ripped apart like the seams of an old tutu. Ambition denied. Opportunities lost and forsaken.
The echoes of music have long since been silenced; the ghostly tapping of pointe shoes heard only in dark dreams of relinquished aspiration, as girls become women and hope is left behind.
A lifetime of practice; rehearsal; of dancing in the spotlight, swept away in dust and ashes. The bouquets have wilted along with wistful plans for a glittering future.
Only the ordinary world awaits, with a mundane future up ahead.
There are some things that money cannot buy.
There are some things that money cannot buy.
And yet in the coming days, other feet will slip into satin ballet slippers; other hands will arrange the layers of tulle to lie prettily on the hips; other eyes will gaze proudly in the mirror at the graceful turn of a ballerina's head.
The music plays, the counting starts and with rhythm and grace the very first step is taken...
...And so the ballerina dream begins again,
While the shadowy ghosts that danced before, sigh in the silence
of eternity.
By Marie Bruce
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