I peer through the tiny hole, squinting.  I see splinters of color, jagged and broken.  I desperately dial the barrel, trying to get the picture to form a coherent pattern.  But this kaleidoscope has leaks.  Light pierces through cracks in its surface, disturbing the dance of crystal.

I throw the thing down on the table and dash away.  But it draws me back, time and time again.  I fiddle with its mechanisms, trying to figure out how to make the shards of glass fall into place.  An audience shouts at me, catcalling, jeering, hissing  as I cringe beneath the onslaught.  They expect so much of me.  They watch my struggles, the dancing colors projected on a screen behind me.    I discard  the kaleidoscope again and the voices roar, the taunts surging around me, louder and louder.

I wrap myself in the curtain and pray for the symphony to play the strains of Goodnight Ladies, signalling the end of the performance.  I will the houselights to rise.  But hands pull me from my hiding place and shove me back in front of the stage lights.  The kaleidoscope lies on a tall table.  I can see that its glass is broken, that the colored bits spill from it.  I can never make its pattern lovely.  Still the audience expects me to work magic and show them a pretty picture.  I stand in defeat.

And then the alarm rings and I jolt awake.

My breath comes in long shudders.  I realize that my years of fear, my sleepless nights, my loud laments, all stem from my essential belief that I will fail.  I have not believed myself good enough.  I have worried that my audience will be displeased.

I am closing the curtain now, and turning out the lights in the theatre.  I no longer care if the crowd finds me acceptable.  None of us should.  None of us should ever feel anything but worthy.  We should all feel like rock stars.  Anyone who tries to beat us down should be denied access to the audience.  Close and bar the doors.  Perform only for those who come to see you shine.