Smoking mirrors; nothing is always as it seems. Behind the glitz and glamour fame is a nightmare, not a dream. All people see is the pearly white smiles and diamond rings, the red carpets and pink frilly things. Little do they know that when the cameras aren’t flashing and the crowds aren’t gathering, alone in the confines of my room I clutch my knees to my chest and allow tears to roll down my cheeks.
It’s funny how the whole world could know your name yet you can still feel so painfully alone. Always on the move, the plane is the only place I can call home. Relentless paparazzi forever stalking my front door; not a day passes that I don’t feel like a lamb to the slaughter, or a piece of meat to be brought and soled with no right to ever say no. I constantly see myself on magazine front covers but they are never a true reflection of me, rather distorted impressions created on a computer screen. But the worst of it? No privacy because my entire life can be seen on TV and my misery is a producer’s greatest glee – “Just think of the ratings!”
The fame monster… it’s big, ugly, scary and if you offer up your blood, it will take your heart instead. No mercy, you can’t click your heels and wish it all away. Sign on the dotted line and the devil is forever right behind, and when the price of fame is too high to pay… your soul is repossessed to settle your debts.