Nine year old ballerinas, running around me with the anticipation of the next lesson, nearly running me over.
Some of them holding their new iPhones protectively, against their little bodies covered with close-fitting fabric of their ballet that suits that come in a variety of different colors.
Their nearly naked bodies showing a little too much skin, though they are not old enough to care, their hair in ponytails or buns smiling to their fathers, those men waiting in the lobby.
Their fathers smiling back, or asking whats wrong. Few mothers back there too, but talking about their daughters with some kind of competition in their voices.
One of the fathers reading a book trying to close the giggling of the girls out of his little world.
And few older students like me, trying to find a way to the dressing rooms to get away from here.
Looking lost, and knowing that the little girls are better than we are and some of them will be professionals. And also knowing, that some of them will drop the hobby before even getting to the point where they decide.
And some of them are soon wanting to be even skinnier than they are now, causing themselves eating disorders.
Some of them are going to brake bones, or hurt them selfs so bad that they can't dance anymore and they will get bitter over their friends; the ones that are professionals.
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