The Desperate Story-Tellers

I feel terrible in this empty studio. Thermocol bubbles straying the red carpet. Used tape sticking up to my feet. Collecting trash to be dumped. The house keeper brooming the used and strewn heroes of the war, which ended in glory yesterday. It was performance for everyone. Now the arena is empty. The performers gone home.

Always rejected as behind the scenes, shootings will make the most romantic of stories. There is so much at stake. Such expectations, dreams, plans, passion, anticipation and anxiety.

Each day of shoot I brace myself and shed off my inhibitions, my shyness to give it my best and as the day draws to an end I’m high with adrenalin of tension or success. I can’t get to sleep. Living up to everyone’s and most of all, my senior cinematographer’s expectations keeps me tossing on the bed. My ankles throbbing with standing so much. And Oh! I can’t wait for it to unfold before me. I can’t wait to know how it will go. Will it end perfectly? Better than the best? Better than the previous time? Better than R?

And then it’s over. And now it’s over. I don’t care if it’s better than the previous time or if it’s better than R’s. I don’t care if what emerges is what I had wanted. It’s this empty (almost clean now) studio and just me. The performance is over. The anticipation is over. The journey is over. The result matters no more.

Ever since I joined this college and took up this course I have not been able to convince myself that this is what my life will be like. It still is a diploma course which will end and I will go back to where I came from. Will I still be writing stories and planning them and shooting them? Will I have the courage to go through this on my own with no schedules? Is this seriously what my life will be about?

I know people who are desperate to tell their stories. Am I?

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