Runway Lights Out (Coming Down)

Picture it; you're in the most successful band on the planet, the whole world wants to know your every move. Privacy is at a minimum, you shower in admiration, get tangled in autographs, smoke with fattened celebrities and mingle in VIP frivolities.
World tours are stamped on the suntan and magazines are as dizzy as the fans for your attention. Millionaire poster pull out. You!
Suddenly something snaps. You look around at four all too familiar walls and realise that all the action has been happening in your bedroom. The only spotlight your imagination, the crowds merely star struck hunger pains.
Reality hits and a tornado of sad faces rips through the dolby cocoon, tearing out the frenzied ocean of racing pulses.
The stage curtains, which opened as happily as a children's fairytale, now close with the savagery of an orphanage. You are alone, once again draped in splendid isolation for nobody to see.
The scene I have described is vague in detail because the details themselves are built on confusion and emptiness, but I for one have experienced this dramatic daydream first hand and am certain I am not alone.
Everybody has imagined at one stage in their life (usually during childhood) of scoring the winning try in a rugby world cup or of 'breaking a leg' whilst trying not to trip over the works of Shakespeare onstage but to have these fantasies crawl around in the mind from childhood onward is a constant burden on the brains reply button for whenever the urge to dance in the spotlight arrives it must be pressed and the desired script acted with fury to an invisible, yet strangely real audience.
It is this urge which I believe to be the center of infection. One cannot suppress the desire to become a flower amongst thieves if the seed is planted at birth because it grows with fierce intent and over shadows all that posess no reflection.
Here it would seem the seed is talent. A gift from God to be unwrapped by the reciever and shown in all glory to the world.
Whether I have been given the treasure remains to be seen in the real world but here inside my head I have been blessed with so many talents that I scarcely know where to begin to tame them all.
Every day I wear a different mask, and those masks are worn to inflate various disguises depending on what I have read in newspapers or heard on the radio.
On Monday I might be a renowned philosopher seeking the chance to put a dreadful deed into contex, whereas Tuesday may bring guitars, cocaine binges and cameo roles to the door of my imagination. Whatever ideas I may have during these days I must see them through the eyes of a different character, and I realise now that living this way is not unlike fuelling life with alcohol and other drugs. A bad day can be made better and a good day bliss.
However living in this comatose cartoon drains energy from every part of the body including the spirit and nothing is worse than waking up to the fact that all along you have been feeding a curious ego to satisfy an audience of selected people.
I am not a master on the tricks of the mind and can only assume that getting trapped inside fantasy is a face of quiet schizophrenia, or occasion when there is an imbalance of chemicals swirling inside the brain. But without getting involved in psychiatric wizardry I am confident that the feelings I have described can be summed up in one word; escape.