Celebrity (Long)

                             Celebrity

            I walk alone down a lonely road. Trees become my only friends as I run from the beautiful life I've had. No one knows the pains of growth, the way fame kills. No one understands how the looks change when everyone you once knew suddenly realizes that you have something they want. The gleaming eyes that hold admiration for the 'life' you show in public, but don't realize the problems that go along with it. No more early morning runs through the neighborhood you grew up in, no more movie theaters, no more grocery stores.

             "I want to be like you." They all say, all because you're an artist, writer, actor, singer, dancer. They see the money, the glam and glitz. They don't understand long nights spent sleeplessly in a studio painting, writing, rehearsing, and singing a song over and over.
            They don't know how fame kills.

I think perhaps it might be easier to be a tree, growing new leaves when the old one dies, photosynthesizing.

No one is ever remembered until they die. The tree nourishes and coaxes the person while alive, but only learns from them once they die. When treated rough, we curse the tree that made us, not remembering the years of care it gave to us. We only know hurt, only pain.

The human is a semi-permeable box; all the anger gets in, but cannot get out, while the happiness can slip right through the holes, as if a cycle. Eventually the box will fill and burst, and that is when we die: not the physical embodiment of ourselves, but the underlying being, our soul, dies. That is when the reincarnation cycle will stop, when the spirit dies. That is the end. In my lifetime, I will not reach the end. I will become invisible to the average passerby. I will become something simpler than me; sweet, sweet tree, I will be you. Then maybe, just maybe, I will be free.

 

 

 

Author's Note

View of a runaway celebrity.
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