I jolt up awake, with cold beads of sweat crawling down my back. My eyes are bulging open, my mouth is gasping for breaths like I was drowning in my sleep. I frantically scan the restrictive pastel box that I was stuffed into.

A luxury suite, they called it with their wide, breaking, grins.

***

Nothing in the corner, all doors are closed, nothing on the ceiling, no one under my bed, no messages on my phone, and no breeze scurrying through the air.

Air flows out of my overworked lungs in a stampede.

I collapse backward on my bed like an old, limp, rag doll. Every muscle discovered in the human body takes a breath, screams out, takes a breath, screams, and repeats.
Not even in tandem with my breaths; how rude.
Drearily imagine a choreography to go along with it. One and twirl, one and spin, one and two, and three and pirouette.

My eyes are just about to slip shut, just a few more minutes of ignoring everything.

Then a BEEEEEEEP.

SCREAAAAAAM.

Slam.

A boulder of dread flattens my stomach. I glance at the shades. Not dawn yet.
A ripple of thought: it never will be.

I heave myself up, and blood floods down my veins. I feel dizzy, but I still stumble up, staggering across the room. I can't disappoint; the people want a show.

***

I order breakfast through a muffled dial-up phone on a small table in the kitchenette. I go submit to the waterboarding that is also known as a shower. It slowly becomes easier to keep my eyes open, and easier to walk, when my body is electrocuted by awareness and anxiety. I move faster and faster. Ignore my whiney muscles.

Maybe if you pretend something doesn't exist long enough, it will fade away.

***

Room service comes and goes, I get ready, I leave, I forgot to eat breakfast, oh well, I meet security in the garage, I am transported to the stadium, and go through back doors. Everyone is fluttering around in a blur.

I see the backup dancers and vocalists in a huddled group in a corner, out of the stage-preparer's way, and I start over to them, but I am again ushered away to dress, for last-minute touchups.

***

Lyrics of ballads I've written are recited, remembered, pitched, and tuned in my mind. Lest I miss pronounce or misremember or sing the songs I've written in the wrong pitch.

My eyes are glazed out, even when I try to focus them in the makeup mirror. The lightbulbs are all around it, and various artists are fussing over my complexion. So much makeup, it's like a mask.

My eyes make the mistake of glancing over the counter, and among my photographs for reference of what colors work, I see a magazine.

My face was prominently pictured with blazing, bold, letters placed front and center over my forehead: "Failure or Fantastic? No one can tell anymore; Analysis of ______'s New Album and Ongoing Tour—Spoiler: it's not pretty."

I must have been staring too long because it is snatched from my view soon after.

I refocus on my face in the mirror.

My default face is neutral—and now more than ever I feel disconnected from my expressions. I never frown anymore. I don't truly smile, either.

***

I am plucked from my chair and shoved out onto a stage, the spotlight on me. The lights make me feel like I'm melting, but I put on a smile anyways. I steal a cursory glance up at the pre-dawn sky; it has been a day since I woke up. Sometimes time stretches out to years in one 24-hour period.

The crowd seems endless. A writhing, cheering, mass of bodies all squished together. I try to make as much eye contact as I can. Turn on my mood of chipper twitterati on.

***

I walk up to the microphone and say my introductions.
And then I hear booing.

Faint, but distinguishable. Louder, louder, louder.

Everyone is booing me off now. I involuntarily take a step backward. Sweat is trickling down my back. My smile is crooked. My eyes are terrified, but no one can see them clearly from so far away.

I try to find some lyrics, a stanza, and a melody, and I come up blank.

The boos are all-encompassing, and heckling and insults are scattered throughout the air.
I can't keep my tears back, and some flow down my still-smiling cheeks.

I am gasping for air, the lights are somehow even more intense.

A monotone voice floats its way through my thoughts; "if they want a show, why not give it to them...?"

***

I step forward. The criticism is deafening, but I can still hear my guitar in my hands, and my voice in my lungs.

My smile wilts into an undiluted rage.
A few strums, but oh, too late.

They already took pictures, wrote articles, and published them all.

Everyone knew now.

The headline was "Insane; the Breakdown of Fame and Privilege...

But the show always goes on.

Doesn't it?"