You travel alone, you’re away most of the time.
You’ve lost, throughout the years, any notion of home. Waking up in strange beds, lonely hotel rooms, having international meals and 14-hour flights, being praised by people who don’t even know your real name. They call you that silly fake name you made up as a joke whenever they meet you backstage, and you still feel weird and slightly uncomfortable with it.
And the emotions they express just at the sight of you make you feel empty: not because you feel any better than them, but because you simply know you’re not. Because you know you couldn’t possibly live up to their expectations, because they would be disappointed to know you are painfully normal, you make mistakes, you left your pregnant girlfriend for another woman, you pee in the shower, you watch disgusting porn, sometimes you forget to trim your nails, you don’t shower everyday and, every once in a while, you have sex with a groupie.
When you started making music you just wanted to express yourself. You just wanted to have fun. You never really wanted the lights and flashes and interviews and expensive cars. The girls, the gossip, the blow. You were only doing your thing. But it became bigger and bigger and now…
You’ve got on top and there’s no where to go but down. What’s left to desire when you’ve got everything? What’s left to live for without the desire for something?
…
That’s when you reach for your iphone and text Lucille.
“Oh My God I miss you.”
