Backstage

I'm writing under a tiny pool of light, from the bowels of Arellano theatre. The thespians are huddled, eating their sushi, discreetly facebook chatting, maybe someone is highlighting backstage, twirling a fake mustache and turning their crumbling page. It's tech week and we're a little loopy. We're over ambitious, under rehearsed, and generally ready to pass out. The previous Snowpocalypse threw the semester into chaos and our professors are playing catch up. We have violet circles under our eyes but we're missing the twilight outside, locked in the theatre with computer chargers and tired fingers. Having said that, it's a good time. Nothing inspires illicit lust or imagination like confined quarters. As of Friday, I'm a free woman and believe me, I will be popping some bottles and sleeping till three. But. We're young and restless and we'll traipse around backstage, knocking into cheap set pieces, and cutting our elbows on sharp edges. And later, when we're enjoying the twilight, we'll laugh about all the times we never saw the sun.