Post-Performance Depression

So many evenings spent in the studio toiling and sweating in hyper-focused concentration; falling into bed exhausted only to ceaselessly repeat the steps in your mind. Being there so often, you begin to take the friendships, laughs and struggles for granted. The music circles your bed in the air and you awaken only to continue training in anticipation.

The day arrives and the vanity table becomes a palace of glittering glamor. Rhinestones and diamond dust, vibrant color and fluttering lashes are worn as a testament to the endless hours you spent striving to embody the beauty of the art form. The final blissful moment comes when it’s time to slip into your costume– artistic embodiment.

Everyone seems different–excited, on edge and exhilarated. When the music begins you feel the stage under your feet and it’s as if a new world has burst into existence. The fabrics glisten in the light and you look out into an endless sea of cheerful, eager faces. At the last beat you feel full of pure, invigorated bliss. You took every bit of effort and care and created a beautiful, living gallery of movement. When the show is over there are hugs, smiles, even tears.

It’s this particular moment of dissolution that creeps in amidst the adrenaline rush so many of us endure. Suddenly you realize there will be no extra practice the following day. There won’t be anymore rehearsals or anticipation. The camaraderie that came into being ceases to exist the moment you leave the performance hall. You no longer belong on-stage or with anyone else.

This is the evening that I’ve learned to dread over the years; this is post-performance depression. I’ve tried to drown it in celebrations and activity. Speaking to those who have never spent long hours enveloped in the art of perfection feels lifeless. Evening sobs burst forth from the heart and you put your hands on your chest to keep it from leaking out onto the floor. A physiological reaction and tips to deal all dart forth from articles intended to soothe the woeful artist. How can anyone possibly understand? The only consolation is the promise of loftier and more exalted attainment. The creative instinct is a revered and irreplaceable affliction.

Friendly Words

What a comfort you are to me, my Gemini friend. I felt I was gasping for air, my heart heavy with hopeless dreams. Suddenly you appeared in my mind as a vision of angelic kindness, a refuge of sweet understanding.

We’ve chosen the same path and dealt ourselves similar cards. We’ve opened our souls and been left to wander long corridors of desperate loneliness. Words come easy to us– musical language and nutritional poetry.

Sharing a friendship with you has returned me to myself. May you always turn to me for tenderness.


Nothing is futile. With each act of devotion there comes a fleeting glimpse behind the cosmic curtain. I’ve spent my years thus far striving to sustain myself from some form of whatever lies beyond our ability to comprehend. Convinced I was coming up empty handed and feeling further away than ever before, only now have I begun to sense a physical tear in the veil. There is a certain romance in the struggle of loneliness which eventually leads one to reluctantly glimpse into the divine mirror of the self. In relinquishing my hold on truth and surrendering to wonder, the sun has revealed its childlike luminescence and the sea has called to me from beyond the grave of cynicism. There it was– everything before me and yet inaccessible. Every regret, every inextinguishable sense of loss, every blockade before liberation seemed a damnable act of fortune. Fortunate indeed–the gray and pliable implications of the word pass us by.

There are depths to be penetrated and epiphanies to be sung. Night and day twirl in the sky as daily reminders of the divine to-do list. The star struck waif was never lost; she was brought to fruition and led by a planetary carriage straight to the door of her sacred inheritance. Here she stands, springs of heaven in her hair and a satiated silhouette of ethereal femininity. She studies the sacred archetype of the ballerina and sings herself to sleep with the promise of attainable perfection. The cracks in the lifelong illusion widen and her ‘being and everythingness’ fuse with the symphony that was once before a fleeting musical overtone.

Love is only truly alive when awakened in a state of divine resonance. As a work of art, it must be grasped from a higher plane and transformed through the human vehicle into a form of devotional expression. The little waif steps forth as a starstruck child of infinite celestial potential. She is crowned and revered in a fairy tale penned by her own hand. The fields are once again gold and the seas glitter with possibility just as she had gazed upon in her youth. No longer duped by material greed and duality, she is free and enraptured to explore philharmonic galaxies.