Do you know what that’s like?
People dream about being rich and famous.
They fantasize about luxury, about being adored, about being untouchable.They think fame is a glittering crown, not a set of chains.
But they don’t know.
Fuck—I didn’t know.
Not until I was knee-deep in it, drowning in the spotlight everyone thinks is pure and precious, when really, it’s fool’s gold.
All the money, the glitz, the glamour?
It comes at a cost.
A steep one.
Sometimes that cost is too much for one person to bear, and they pay anyway because the machine doesn’t care how empty you are as long as you perform.
It’s not just the constant cameras or fake smiles.
It’s time.
Your time.
It’s your conscience, too.
The little bargains you make to survive.
The way you chip pieces off yourself because someone says it’sgood for your image.
It’s compromising your faith in yourself, in music, in people.
It’s loneliness.
The kind that sinks its claws into your ribs during a twenty-month world tour while you’re singing to fifty-thousand screaming fans, and not one of them knows you.Not really.
It’s losing track of why you started.
What mattered.
Who you were.
It’s losing your muse.
Losing her.
Because that’s the truth I never wanted to say out loud.
The reason I can’t write anymore?
The reason the music dried up?
The reason everything before right now felt hollow?
It’s her.
It’s always been her.
