funny.

j/o------------------------------

there was honestly nothing more                              
                  he could say.
he was officially exhausted.
his life had begin spiraling out of control sometime around the time his career was spiraling out into another stratosphere. he couldn't quite pinpoint the date, but he remembered the confusion that surrounded his every waking moment. one day he was a normal guy in the middle of a million others. the next, he was hailed a genius, compared to artists he admired, and his phone didn't stop ringing for the next few years. as much as he was thrilled for the opportunities that were presenting themselves, he wasn't prepared for the pressure that weighed so heavily on his shoulders. it wasn't what he expected, and he wasn't capable of handling it. especially alone. his lover began to grow jealous of the attention put upon him. his friends who had always supported and encouraged him weren't sure how to deal with his notoriety, and so, stepped back and let him shine, never understanding that in actuality, he needed them more than ever.
he woke up every morning with every good intention, which, by noon, was usually scrambled with a hundred different points of view, something he didn't like because he had always done things his way, which was why these other views, the same ones which were hiring him, were defeating that very purpose. why were they hiring him if they just wanted him to do things their way? wasn't it what he did without them that they loved? didn't they understand that by just letting him go, they would get something better than they could have ever dreamed? wasn't it fair to at least let the artist create art? that was when his mind began to get jumbled up and he began to understand that his art was just something that everyone wanted to take control of and then, just stamp his name on. it was his name they wanted, not really him. he was just there to make them look good. then he started to realize that all of a sudden, everything he saw by other artists was beginning to look very similar to his signature style, one that had never really been seen before, but now, was being copied by everyone, on everything, and he understood then that, he in fact was disposable. he had created the style, and now it was being recreated, however poorly, by the masses.
he had never cared much for the masses, in fact, it was because of his rebellion against them that he changed the look of what he did in the first place, but now, they were not only following him, but blatantly copying his style that less than two years before he was told would never sell.
funny.
if only they believed in him two years ago, if only he had someone with power to stand behind and trust him, push him, and exploit him so that he was the one who got credit and, well, money, for his backbreaking work. maybe then, he wouldn't be in the position he was now. maybe then he would have avoided the insanity that followed the next eight years when he was so hurt and so disillusioned by the way things all twisted and turned against him.
his heart was cold.
his brain, fried.
his soul, shredded.
his life, a mess.
the once generous man he used to be was now the one who needed a hand out, but others, as he was finding out, were not so giving. he had once been on top and the one they all looked to.
now he was outside looking in, and though he hoped for the best, he knew better.
the end was near, he thought.

     but in fact, it was only the beginning...