My name rings across the hall like an affirmation of victory.
The resounding claps and chatter scatter around me,
in hollers and whoops they cry out, as i step through the
rows and columns of smiling faces,
some contorted, some genuine.
I turn around to the viewing gallery above,
scouring for familiar faces, to which i find
my mother, with tears in her eyes, joy all over.
With each step i take, up the wooden stairs,
the claps grow fainter, softer, till the ringing of the microphone remains.
“Congratulations on being the first,” she said, paper in her hand.
I take the paper and face the front.
A flash of white blinds my eyes. And then i take a bow.
I walk off stage to go back to my seat.
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How ugly that is, to be heard by many.
I barely knew these faces, why would they support me?
Their voices are so overpowering, i can barely walk straight.
Please stop smiling at me, you look appalling.
If you’re going to force yourself, you might as well not.
I bet she would be happy to see me go up on stage.
Why would you be crying? You did not earn this. I did.
The cracks beneath the planks show the fissures
grounded within these inhibitions.
This piece of paper will be nothing but a memory.
Serve to show a glory in the past with no imprint on the coming.
To bask in these melting lights for apparitions.
I am trapped in a rat race, in a map of eight.
Only for next year to come to do it all over again.
XinRiji 