Control

There are things I wish to control.

An hour before, my stomach is knotted and unforgiving. I feel ill. Practicing makes me feel better, at least for the moment. Everything sounds perfect. Ten minutes before, my pulse is a madhouse. It fires in rapid succession, beating to the frenzy of a stampede. I breathe as slowly as I can, go over my lyrics in my mind, visualize the chords. When the time comes, I take a deep breath. I know everything I've written, I know that it's not the end of the world, and I know that this is what I want. My heart beats faster than my body can measure. My fingers fail to express my ability. Words escape me in their proper order. Stomach, unforgiving; calm, lost.

There are things I wish to control; like myself.