August 3, 1867

Time is no friend.

It seems to taunt me during the empty moments as they pass, and the days go by that remind me of my father, and the moments we spent together. They seem longer than the rest, never allowing me to heal.

My birthday is only one of these moments in which time brings an old friend along, placing a burden of anguish on my heart.

At midnight I shall be sixteen, marking another year my father will miss watching me grow up.

I wish not to dwell on this subject any longer.

All of Paris is in a bustle.

It is the time during which the newest opera season has been announced, Die Zauberflöte, il, Medee, and Cosi fan Tutte featuring the famous soprano Carlotta Bonuccelli, who has occupied every lead soprano role since her debut in Iphigenie en Aulide.

Every lady has hastened to learn the latest gossip of the modish fashion in the city of Paris, including the finest silks and ribbons, how to wear their sleeves and bustles, and, of course, jewels of the most optimum beauty to express their character of luxury.

As for the men, they capped their heads with silken top hats and cloaked their shoulders with fine capes, some lined with gold, others made entirely of silk.

Despite the hustle of commotion throughout the city, there is far more of it to be had beyond the doors and behind the curtains of the infamous Opera Populaire, including one of the greatest legends ever told of the opera house.

Today I had a rehearsal with the ballet chorus. Our director insisted some of the choruses and featured extras be ballerinas, as well as some of the minor characters, and also add a ballet scene.

Madame Giry was teaching us a few of the steps, and auditioning us for a few of the featured roles.

I have no desire in doing so, as I am not eager to place myself in the center of attention. Already I am tolerant of dancing on stage with the other ballerinas, but I often sneak away and hide towards the back, out of sight from the audience.

Massimo and I were practicing just yesterday when he decided to bring up the subject as well. I let it run its course, but I wasn't any closer to accepting it.

"Nicolette," he began in his dreamy french accent, "you would be stunning as one of the lead ballerinas. There is no other that exceeds such finesse and Talent as you possess."

I could not help but blush, forcing my eyes away from his. "Oh no, Massimo. I do not have the bravery."

"Ah, but you had to find the bravery to dance alongside the other ballerinas, no?" he reminded me.

"That is tolerance, not bravery," I heaved a heavy sigh.

He shrugged. "Appelle ça comme tu veux."

"Even so that has not made it easier. I am terrified every time I walk on that stage."

He furrowed his brow. "You don't ever seem so."

"It's like wearing a mask... but it's not something I'm proud of..."

I sat down to undo the ribbons of my pointe shoes, when Massimo knelt down next to me, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. "Let me promise you something. Tolerance is holding back what you think you can handle until it devours you from the inside. Bravery is being able to face them."

Massimo always said the right thing. There was never a time he didn't. And I don't intend he ever will.

Now I am merely waiting for the stroke of midnight.

Another year without my father has only depressed me all the more. The thoughts have done nothing more than keeping me up.

I can't very well sleep, so I think I will go dance for a while... or find a place to cry.

...

My apologies for the tears on the page and the running ink...

I have done something tonight I have not done in a long time, and I'm not sure how to feel about it. I was practicing a few of the ballet solos, expressing my own character and technique, but my focus was not with me.

Every time I danced, I could not help but think of my father, and I would waver or fall.

Over and over again I stumbled.

My frustration only grew and my feet were hurting.

I tried forcing myself to get it right, which didn't seem to work, and of course, made no sense.

Nothing was clear.

No other thought seemed above importance than that of my father.

The theatre began to blur from a sudden flow of tears. I couldn't breathe properly. I felt nauseous and dizzy, alone, scared, desperate. I wanted to run somewhere, but I didn't know where.

I tried to dance away my emotions by doing Chaine's around the stage, turning and whipping my head, trying to rid my mind of these depressing thoughts. My breath was only accelerating, my chest heaving, legs growing weighted, my ankles ready to crumble and my arms nearly too tired to be lifted.

Suddenly I tumbled and rolled over the stage, and burst into tears.

My entire being was exhausted. I lay on the floor of the center stage, weeping into my nightgown while my feet throbbed from being so sore after falling and wobbling for over an hour.

Every memory of my father was alive.

His youthful eyes in the midst of a wrinkled face, still twinkling with the juvenile spirit of his past. How I longed to hear his voice again, to wrap my arms around him for a hug, even to sing for him as he played his violin.

After allowing myself a short cry, I sat up and dried my tears, remembering the song I used to sing. The thought alone seemed to revive some of my strengths, allowing me comfort for even a short time. The words came to me so easily, even now after so long without singing.

For years I have refused to sing because the last time I tried... I couldn't handle the pain that came with it.

And now... I can't seem to stand myself for being silent.

So I sang... like I never had before.

https://youtu.be/loRpy_7s7O4

La mia vita va come un fiume in piena

Io con lui ogni giorno godr

Ora sono sola

Presto tempo vola

Portami il mio amor

E fa' svanire il dolor

Non aspettare', portalo qua

E fa' svanire il dolor

E fa' svanire il dolor

Mare di risate e cieli d'Oro

La con lui ogni giorno vive

Quando st lontano

Tempo non far' piano

Portami il mio amor

E fa' svanire il dolor

Non aspettare', portalo qua

E fa' svanire il dolor

E fa' svanire il dolor

Ti prego fa'

Oh, fa' svanir' il mio dolor

Even as I finished, I could hear the echo of my father's violin as I wept a final tear. My heart was heavy, but it felt complete, filled with the familiar magic and wonder of music my father never ceased to amaze me with. It felt wonderful to sing again.

But I had exhausted myself even further.

I sat down and removed my ballet pointes then left-back for the dorms with my slippers and robe, when a chill crossed my path. I didn't think anything of it until I thought to have heard a whisper.

"Brava..." it seemed to sing.

My eyes wandered the theatre in search of a being that belonged to this supposed whisper. But there was no one to be found.

I rushed back to the dorms and have found myself here, documenting this experience in my journal. I hope to remember this for a long time and find the inspiration to sing again as I did tonight.

P.S. It is well past midnight, in which I announce I am officially sixteen years of age. If only there was one with whom I could celebrate.

...

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