Excerpt:

All the world’s a stage.

And none could have said it better, no one could put it simpler- life is a series of shows, players on the stage, in and out of the spotlight and putting on act on act, curtains and audiences with their polite, measured applause just because the silence is still, uncomfortable, more deafening than the noise.

That’s what it’s like for him.

(He has stage fright, of sorts- but it’s not the show he fears, not the drawing of the curtains but the closing, but when the crowd filters out of their seats and their applause dies down- because if life is the show, what happens inbetween?)

And before every show when he’s warming up at the back of the stage, when the lights are dim and dark and he can hear the rumble of the crowd just beyond the curtains- it’s then that he knows true fear. It’s then that he knows that this is it, this is the moment, this is the time when he has to shine, this is everything his life comes down to, right beyond the door in the face of hundreds of thousands- the shadows are unsettling, the light’s going down, down, down, and the only thing he has is his music- his music, and his guitar. But then the fear ebbs, a little (it’s always there, of course, never goes away), gives way into anticipation, fades from pure terror to anxiety, and he’s shifting back and forth on his feet and his fingers are drumming on the frets- his hands are aching to play and his voice is demanding, crying out to sing, because he knows, he has his music, and that’s all he goddamn needs. So the light pools into the centre of the stage and there’s smoke and mirrors and fire and things, and the man in the back with the stellotaped headphones and a lopsided grin gives him a thumbs up and mouths some words of token good luck, he steps forward, pushes it open.

And the world dies.

The world dies, explodes, in a glorious thing of light and color and noise, so much noise, and everything becomes a blur- and that faint rumble of the waiting crowd grows into a deafening roar, and it feels like his heart is on fire and he doesn’t know how he’s moving, but his legs are moving on their own and he’s just walking towards the mike stand and he raises his arms and the noise grows even louder, and holy fuck, he never knew people could be that loud (you’d think he’d learn by now but it’s the same every time, he never learns, was never good at learning). And for awhile he’s confused, he doesn’t know what to do, because damnit the world just ended and there’s so many, so many people looking to you as if you’re the answer, you’re the cure, the one thing left in their lives that can save them from the darkness, what is there to do?

Nothing.

Nothing, but fucking sing your heart out, scream it to the crowd, play like you mean it. The thrum of the notes is unmistakable, shakes him to the core, and he can feel it coursing through his body in a way he’d never before known, and the drums and the cymbals are pounding- and the way the guitar plays, dancing around the solid, dark notes of the bass, it’s something incredible, when it builds into a crescendo, and it all seems so unplanned and spontaneous and yet so fucking incredible, it’s a high like nothing, like no one can describe. He doesn’t understand how the others can just stay there, moving around in their own little way, that isn’t enough for him, because he’s fucking tearing up the stage and destroying it, moving and jumping and- it’s just the music, the music is carrying him, up and up and far away.

Nothing matters, nothing matters but this- because everywhere else he’s too complex (some guy, some celebrity, someone who has troubles and his defined by his choices and relationships and his debts and his loans and his taxes and his income and his class and his social denomination and-) but here, here, here on the godfucking stage the world just sort of crumbles and falls to nothing and he becomes simple, so simple, just him and his music and that’s all that he really needs, anyway (who needs anything else?). Because he gives it his all, his everything, because it is everything to him, because he can see it in their eyes, in their grasping hands reaching out towards him like common men towards a god. Because they’re asking for it, asking for a god, asking for his soul, asking for him to give them his voice his heart his soul his mind his body his music and he just does it, just unleashes all hell on that stage. It doesn’t make sense, nothing makes sense, just them and the music and the vibrations pounding through their lungs, just the words he screams and sings and yells and cries.

All the world’s a stage, because that’s all there is left, just him on that stage and his music-and it’s sort of like life, isn’t it, sometimes high sometimes low sometimes screaming his heart out sometimes growling, because sometimes he’s tearing back and forth on the stage and it’s amazing that he still has the energy to move (maybe he doesn’t but- how is he supposed to stop, the music’s still playing, still going, he can’t stop), sometimes he’s just sort of swaying on the spot and tilting, almost falling, just falling into the blackness and the music that’s all around him.

And then the world dies.

He wishes that he could live his life out on the stage, never leave, just him and his music in a time and place where not even breathing compared to just singing and playing, wishes that he could never have to take the bow and watch the lights dim down, but the world isn’t just a stage. Life isn’t just a stage, life isn’t just a show, life is everything around and after the show, life is dealing with the press and the creepy stalkers and the rumours and the sales management and the intricacies of day to day life- and it’s funny, because, it’s only on the stage when he’s still alive. But they tell him he’s still too much of a kid, they tell him he should grow up, that he should know that there’s more out there, that there’s a life to live- he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand, because what else is there to life?

Nothing.

But it’s- a horrible sort of feeling, empty and hollow, and the crowd fills out and the stage is dark and dim and fading, when the dust is settled and there’s nothing left but heavy breaths and aching muscles and sweat and the wind blowing his hair into his eyes. There’s nothing quite as terrible as falling, falling from that fucking incredible high, and realizing as the blindness disappears and the world sort of pulls itself back together that the rush is over and the adrenaline is fast beginning to fade. And he doesn’t know what the others do, when it’s over, but he doesn’t really say anything, just sort of wanders somewhere to be alone (they usually have a room with his name on it but he’s kind of learned that he’ll never be alone there), offer half-hearted grins and waves to anyone he passes by that people just sign off to exhaustion.

But when he sits there, in the darkness, when he’s shaking and shivering and trembling, picking idly at his guitar, clutching desperately at himself, at the walls, at anything- he doesn’t know what it is, but he needs to think, needs to reassure himself that everything’s okay. Because when the show is over, inbetween the stages when the curtains are closed and the people in the black suits move the props across the stage- when life is just the show, what’s left after? He shudders, he remembers, remembers the moments just seconds before and tells himself, you were there, you have to be alive, because it’d happen again, but it’s all so surreal and it’s all so strange and sometimes he wonders if it happens at all. It’s- difficult to explain, difficult to rationalize, he doesn’t know if it’s the same for them and they just deal with it better or if it’s just entirely different, but it’s hard to find the words, hard to find his voice (it’s almost like he gave it away). He just needs to- it’s weird, it’s strange, he doesn’t really know what he needs or what he wants when the music dies down, is he even supposed to know? But he supposes, in the end he’s just got to tell himself that when he was pouring his soul out to thousands of strangers screaming his name from below the stage, he remembered to leave some for himself.

He’ll forget, one day.