Suppose I told you that there were stories about me in magazines and newspapers, and interviews on TV. They asked for my autograph and wanted me to pose for photos with them. Suppose I told you that I was once famous. Maybe the truth is, they’re no better than you or me or anyone else. They have to be better.īut maybe that’s not the whole truth either. Sucks, doesn’t it? That deep down you believe they must be better, different, special. Oops! I said it, didn’t I? That they’re better than you. They’re prettier, smarter, richer, and, to be brutally honest, just better. And even though the magazines say They’re Just Like Us! they’re not really. It’s not your problem because they’re them and you’re you. Because you really don’t care about the reality. The mansions, private yachts and jets, all those adoring fans, all that attention. Or maybe you’re one of those people who doesn’t really want to know. But that’s only the flower, only the part they want you to see.
everyone craving and wanting you?īut you know, don’t you, that what you imagine is an illusion? Just a frail, fleeting flower offered up by a vast, thorny jungle? Yes, you know about fame because you’ve read the magazines and seen all those stars on TV and on the Web. Your photo on omg! and TMZ? Or on the cover of People? That long white limousine gliding to a stop before a crowd of adoring fans? The blinding caress of flashing cameras? The eager outstretched hands offering photos and scraps of paper for your autograph? Do you imagine strolling up the red carpet? The doors that open only for you? The embrace of the world? The admiration and envy. WHAT DO YOU IMAGINE WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT BEING FAMOUS?
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