Isn't this exactly what I wanted? Isn't this what I had dreamt of? Millions of people screaming my name. Paying money to see me. Clamoring to hear the sound of my voice.

I am performing at Madison Square Garden, every artist's reverie, and I expect to feel this incredible sensation inside me. I expect to feel the notes of the guitar flood my veins. I expect the music to pour out of me, right from my soul in the rawest form. I want to get lost in the music, the haze of screaming fans, and the smell of sweat that pervades the air.
But I've become a puppet. I do what people want me to do and shut up about it. It's not about me. It's about everyone else but me.

I am still here, numb on the inside, thinking about all the sacrifices, the endless hours of writing, recording, interviewing and paparazzi, and all I feel is tired.
***
I still remember the first time I picked up a guitar. I was twelve. Noticing my interest in music,  my mom rented a shabby 1960's Guyatone for me.

I opened the red leather case. The inside reeked of cigarette smoke, booze, and sweat. I stared at it. It was an ugly guitar. The body and fret-board were colored a faded egg-yolk yellow. The surface had a few scratches and the edges were roughed up. It was hideous and yet I was in awe of its magnificence. I picked it up by its threaded-out sash and slung it over my small shoulder. I felt exhilarated.
***
I played for hours, alone in my room. I'd play songs from the Ramones and Aerosmith and imitate my favorite rockers. Gradually, I gathered enough courage to play at the subway terminals. People would take cursory glances at me. Some would just keep walking and others would drop some leftover change in my guitar case. People liked my music. I felt accepted.
                                                                  ***
By the time I turned fifteen, I'd landed my first party gig. My cousin Kidd needed entertainment for one of his big parties, but wasn't willing to pay an "outrageously over-priced" fees. After searching all around town, he had to resort to his scrawny cousin with the unsightly beat-up guitar. I was thrilled. Playing at Kidd's party would be like playing at the IZOD center. I convinced a few of my other 'rock' friends that I'd met at the bar to join me. We created a "one-show" band.

Kidd's parties had a unique aura of their own. You never wanted to forget his parties, but for some reason ended up not having a shred of memory of what happened. Whatever happens at Kidd's, stays at Kidd's.

I remember how awkward it was. I clambered onto the stage, a pack of six plywood boards nailed together. I walked towards the center and held the microphone. It all seemed so surreal. As soon as I played the first few notes to a Nirvana song, the amplifier bellowed, shaking the entire place. People started turning their heads and taking small glances at us. Soon we captivated the audience. People were dancing and singing along. I belted out one popular song after another and sang my heart out. My memory of what happened after that is hazy and made up of random bits and pieces that I've never been able to put together. But I recall that my true rock-star came out of its shell that night, and I felt pure, unadulterated joy.
***
After Kidd's party our popularity grew. We decided our "one show band" needed a name. Mirage started playing at bigger parties, shows and festivals. We were becoming a 'thing' around town.

The most intimidating of these performances was at the House of Blues. It was part of a rock festival the city was hosting, and they wanted a band to represent them. I was stunned when they selected us, especially since we had auditioned with a 'why not?' attitude.

Turns out this was the most pivotal concert of our careers. There were label managers and producers there, one of whom was J. Diedrich. He left his card on my guitar case with a note saying:
"Call if you wanna make the big leagues, kid. You all got somethin'."
We met him the next morning. He kept babbling about contracts and releases and financing and things that would be important if we signed on with him. As soon as he stopped, we picked up the cheap black Papermate pens and scribbled our names on that piece of copy paper. Without thinking for a second how this would impact us, without a shred of thought for the pain and suffering that would come along the way and stick with us forever, we picked up the pens and signed. I felt accomplished.
***
I dropped out of high school in my senior year. J told me that if I wanted this to work, I'd have to be committed 24/7.
"It's a waste of your time kid. You and the others are gonna make so much money you're never gonna need a job. Trust me."
Those were J's exact words. He never mentioned that I was leaving my old life forever. He didn't mention that I'd never see my mother smile and beam with pride that her son didn't turn out like his abusive, evil father. I was leaving my home forever. He didn't mention that I'd have to leave Mandy. And all I thought was how I'd finally get out of my monotonous life, and begin a whole new one. One that everyone dreamed of . I felt lucky.
***
Usually managers will start by touring around the state. Then, they would 'send' you to California. It was like a one-year trial. If you can't be likable in Montana, you don't stand a shot in LA.
Strangely, J. found "the perfect breakthrough" gig in LA, for us pretty quickly. If we played there, we could bypass the long process of trying to gain recognition in suburbs of Montana. There were no questions asked. All of us wanted to get out there and see what life could really be.
It was another rock festival, one of the thousands that take place in LA every year. We hopped on a plane, eager to experience a part of Earth that didn't stink of banality. We never realized how soon this process of getting on a plane and performing would become a normal part of life. We never realized that at one point, the zeal would vanish along with the allure of a celebrity's life.
We did everything together in LA. We explored the seemingly infinite streets and landmarks. The city made us feel so small, yet so unique.
The boys wanted to go around the city one more time. As I headed out, J. stopped me.
"I know I talk about big stuff like fame and stardom and money and all that jazz for all you kids, but I really honestly mean you, just you. You're the real star kiddo. This band, this world the other fellas want, ain't nothin' without ya son. I know there's somethin' special about you. Don't waste your time, or I can give the real stardom to that blonde fella over there."

He pointed towards Kingsley, our bassist. He was talented. He could play the keyboard, bass, drums, guitar and sing. I was always jealous of him, but now I was green with envy. I had forgotten how Kingsley had always been there for me. He had agreed to play with me at Kidd's party. He had agreed to stay with this crummy band and the scrawny fifteen year old with a ratty guitar. He had believed in me before we became something. But that day, none of it mattered. To me, everyone in the band was a threat. All I felt was hatred and greed.

***
The day after the performance, the phone lines blew up. Instantly, we were famous. A Twisted Affliction wanted us to open for their tour. A Twisted Affliction! The same band I'd blast in my room! The same band whose song I played for my first performance! It was thrilling! We expected the process to be this maze, turning its corners with every step, filled with hardships and obstacles. But we had won the lottery of fame.

As our fame grew, so did our conflicts. I thought I was the reason we were famous. I'd never introduce the band. I would introduce myself, the lead singer, because I was the reason this band was a success. People wanted to interview me. Know what I was wearing. Know where I was going. Know who I was dating.
We had just performed in Chicago, and decided to go to a bar afterwards. The paparazzi flooded in, following me. Kingsley was extremely irritated by this. He slammed the drink on the counter.

"You know, it's not just Eric Mendel! It's also Kingsley Bass an- and Carter Fawkins an- and these drum solos you all hear and rave about, yeah, all done by Ricky Lowe right here. We started this band with him too! Ask me questions! Ask them questions! Eric isn't Mirage! WE ARE MIRAGE!"

"Kingsley, we've always been equal, calm-"
"YOU! YOU! Of all people! You've been getting all the spotlight and you are GLADLY taking it all in, not thinking once about who stayed with you when everyone thought you were crazy!"

Then, I punched him. This resulted in a fistfight. Videos of the brawl went viral on social media. Pictures with sleazy details were splashed in every publication. The media had a field day with this.
Yet, I didn't feel shame. Not at all. I felt angry.

***
J. decided it would be best for the band if I stayed away from them. Ever since, I have not had a full length conversation with any of them. We pretend to be together. We have learnt to live in our isolated spaces, especially me. 

Mirage had grown to become one of the greatest rock bands. As our fame grew, so did the loneliness and the number of medications. I drown myself in Xanax, Paxil, Prozac, anything that promises relief. These names are only known to a certain class of people. I live in separate hotels, dress in separate dressing rooms, and eat in different restaurants than the people who stood by me when no one did. I miss my mom and Mandy. I am dating a supermodel who barely knows who I am. She, and the rest of the world, only knows and loves Eric Mendel, the lead singer of Mirage. I try to cover the pain with pills, bottles and smoke. I've lost my passion. What else can be taken away from me? This is, I guess, the beginning of what seems like an inevitable end. I feel defeated.
What will happen?

Only time will tell.