Borderline are the thoughts and experiences of singer songwriter Sian Cook as she developes her music alongside her education.
Competition night. Masons Arms, Bury St Edmunds. Never been here before. The room is chock-a-block, anticipating the arrival of the hosts. The night commences. The announcement of my slot competes with the roaring of blood in my ears; I weave through the sea of people up to where my keyboard tolerantly rests, until I bring it to life.
First, a warm up song. The crowd responds warmly. Perhaps I'm not making myself clear. The crowd whoop and cheer, wolf whistle, you name it. Gosh, someone even gets their camcorder out. Now for the stinger. Let's arouse a little emotion. The room appears silent. Then I strip away the guise and perform.
I entered 'History' because it is in relation to how we cannot change the past, no matter what happens. We can either slip into a trance, the precedent devouring us like a cancer; or we can move on with our lives and let long ago stay history.
I reach the semi final. I do not reach the final. Yet all is not lost, I have met a wide range of talented musicians, sound engineers, the general public. People in which we are all connected for our passion and dedication to music.
At present, I am currently at University trying to gig alongside the pressure of work (yes I am a rarity amongst students who sit down and DO work (!)), and finding the time to unite living experiences, through my eyes , into a composition.
You see, there is a choice between these two realms.
Who says dreams and reality have to be separated? No one can make that decision for you. Whatever your passion, use your own determination to flare your motivation, and the yellow brick road you've always dreamed can cross that delusional borderline into reality.
In summary...
This is the story of a girl in an ordinary world, who decided that exams can only be considered a minority and shouldn't squat heffishly at the top of the agenda. During this deliberation, a keyboard that, over the years has been rattled and mauled and banged with frustration, is cowering in the corner. First the right hand. Then the left. Then both together. Damn, Edward Scissorhands could play better than that. Practice, practice and several cups of tea later... ahh that sounds better. Apparently the best part of my performance is at the beginning: sitting comfortably on the stool, breathing heavily into the mic, staring at the keys until the blackness and whiteness compromise to a shade of grey. The end isn't that bad either. Just the racket in the middle I'm working on.
To temporarily neglect academics to hear the roar of a crowd impatiently awaiting your performance?
I don't think I need to answer that.
My keyboard has served and will continue to support me well. That is until I can afford a massive piano with a leather stool and an Orchestra thrown in as a freebie. Now that might have to stay in my dreams.
I have the choice. So do you.