There is always something significantly beautiful about
night shows –the way the night blanket would drape across the pastel sky at
dusk and twinkle with thousands of stars and with the darkness, it would seem
like the whole world is fading and there is nothing but the illuminated stage
and people who anticipate a good time.
Everyone’s faces are dimmed, except for the fire of
excitement in their eyes and their wide smiles. Everything is ethereal and magical,
and you can’t help but wish that this moment would last for an eternity –where
reality is just a faraway dream and happiness is not short-lived.
I love these moments, and when they happen, I try to paint
everything in my mind and make them immortal in my heart. They are pleasant
memories I go back to –memories I remember with tranquil, wistful feelings.
Naturally, I was tremendously happy when my sister and I
were given a chance to sing on the bright stage, to be part of the enchanted
night. But it was hard. We were anxious despite our constant practices, and I
was fretting all over the possibility that I could jeopardized this show in
Pardo for everyone. My fingers trembled backstage, but when I held my sister’s
hand as I guided her up the stairs to the stage, epiphany washed over me. This is our night. Nothing would go wrong.
Nothing could destroy it.
I held my microphone in a tight grip, a foreign feeling
settling in my chest. I silently thanked my poor eyesight; it diminished any
traces of anxiety as faces were reduced into mere blurs. And we sang, igniting
the night as words smoothly poured out of our lips. We glowed, radiant as the
morning star, and we didn’t care if ever we were out of tune. The evening was
ours.