Guest writer Emorie Hayes on getting lost and found in the Carman practice rooms.

A pulsating Prussian blue taste coats my tongue, leaving my molars thinly veiled with the distinct taste of a blue panic. 

I’m lost.

The dingy beams of light coat my skin as I flail from room to room, each door looking the same as my hand approaches it, only to inevitably be locked.

Mocking me, in a sense.

I find myself lost in the far hallway of Carman Hall, groups of busybodies eager to converse with their friends following the end of the day.

Conversations swing from one of my ears to the other. 

One girl is describing the wicked epic that is her college situationship of two weeks, its eventual crash and burn in her near future, she fears.

A member of the rowing team is describing how ruthless the practices are, kicking his Crocs into sports mode as he looks forward to the plush mattress topper that lavishes his Carman mattress.

And there I am, slipping from group to group to attempt—a very strong word when I’m so bad at it—to find the Carman practice rooms.

Everything is scary.

And bright

And new

I’ve embarrassed myself at least 10 times as of the moment, and the night is still young.

But yes, I have found my magnum opus. 

The door is almost sparkling, the lighting of the hallway coating it in a heavenly glow.

I’m home?

I’m not home as I once again get lost in the tucked-away corner that is the practice rooms. 

The incredibly welcoming stark psychiatric white of the practice rooms’ walls overwhelms me as I ping-pong from one room to the other. 

In one, a girl is shredding her viola, almost lost in it as I get a glance of her in her element.

In the other room, a girl is challenging her pipes, hammering down on the beautiful dance that is the notes to an operatic aria.

I am immediately astounded by the talent that is ringing throughout this room. 

I find my own cove in a practice room, the farthest from the main Carman building. 

I’m finally and truly ready.

The sweet glass of my phone graced my fingers, and “musical theater karaoke” was entered into the YouTube search engine. 

I am ready to become something. 

I’m ready to make my mark in this practice room the same way others have before me.

Their legacy, I maneuver as their successor. 

Wait. 

It’s still loading. 

Musical theater karaoke tapped into the search engine hasn’t even been processed.

This can’t be.

But I need to sing Suddenly Seymour 

I need to sing Let It Go

I need to sing. 

My stomach churns, sweat begins to cling to my temple, and these four walls are pushing upon me. 

Nails gripping my phone, a sickly green filling my lungs as I mourn what could’ve been

My moment 

This is it for me. I can never show my face around here again. I’ve disgraced myself, shaming my predecessors that stepped in the very spot I stand.

My candle of a voice is snuffed out, an icy blue coating my-

Wait.

It loaded.

Header via Bwog Archives