but i think these are the only times gustav has ever been mean to bill

The struggle of being a fan

At first, it was the music. The music of my salvation. Or of my deeper burial in myself? Anyway, I was there for the music. It felt so good, like I was resurrecting. It was a helping hand that would pull me up from misery, or would just simply bury me in the depths of my immeasurable sorrow. I liked it, I loved it, then I adored it. I knew it was written for me, and not only. I felt it with my aching heart. Then I kept listening and moving forward. It helped, the first few months, it really did. I was all shining, smiling, laughing; poor me, it was only the calmness before the fatal storm I have never known I would endure.

I knew nothing about them, until I surfed on the web. I saw them, but only one stood up in front of my eyes. He was tall, handsome and with dark eyes in which I got lost, Forever. The look did not match the sadness in the lyrics. It did not matter for me. I rarely had the occasion to see someone as handsome as him, talented and so like me: hurt. I could only feel a creepy warmth surrounding my heart.

One year passed, I began to love him unconditionally, even though I knew nothing about him, and he nothing about me. All I knew was that I would always be there, if he ever needed me by his side. Maybe he knew something about me: that I was a crazy fan. No, I was a normal person looking for love, for protection, for care. Same as him.

I started to listen to even more songs of theirs, but now sorted after a strange criteria: sad and deep songs. I never did that before, listening only to those type of songs. But my heart needed it. Which was maybe the biggest mistake of my life.

Present.

No one knows how hard is to be a fan, even more if you suffer from emotional instability.

I feel invaded by him, I feel so paranoid and claustrophobic. Every dream, every anonymous question, every person on the street makes me go crazy, thinking he is so close but in reality he is so far away, enjoying his life while an eighteen years old girl is sobbing without stopping to get his attention. Even an ant catches a person’s attention. I do not even have that power.

He turned me into something I never thought I would turn. I feel him at night, holding me in his invisible arms while I lie on the floor, singing in my year: ‘Oh, you’re beautiful/ Don’t you go/ I need you so…’. Does he really mean that? Or is it only my damaged imagination? When I turn to hug him back he fades away in darkness. Was he really there, holding me? He was not…

I spend nights singing his songs in front of a piece of paper with his angelic figure, hanging on the closet. Touching his face with shivering hands, but so carefully, like he is so fragile. The scene is like ripped apart from a play. But one of the actors is mute and can not comfort her in anyway, while the other actor cries her pain out, thinking how ridiculous it is to suffer in front of a wallpaper. Relax darling, miraculously or not, he will not come out from that poster.

The nights pass by at a slow pace. That is the most dangerous time of all. Because no one knows if I close my eyes forever or I open them again to see his beautiful face and eyes. The nights are always the worst. That is when you feel conquered by real pain. I think that one day, I will meet him and have the opportunity to talk to him, not like from a fan to a celebrity, but from a person to a person.  His soothing voice touches me, comforting me, while he holds my poor body at his own fragile chest. But every time I open my eyes he always disappears. I look around. He was not even there. The bed is still cold.

The fear of being rejected, the pain, the thoughts of never finding the real love, people’s idiotic laughter, the mockery! Everything was boxed up in my head by him, by the person whom I love more than words could ever say. You can not imagine how hard it is to seem normal while your mind is far away, lost in an foreign place, where everything is calm and quiet, but tough and storming and the same time.

But what do I mean about loving him? How can I love a person who does not know about my existence? How can I love him though I know nothing about him? I hear voices screaming in my head, making me shiver from endless anguish. I love him, simply love him, for his strength, for his qualities, for his hope! Maybe I do not know what is his favourite food or beverage or what he likes to do at 3am, but I know I love him, unconditionally. Yes, I may know nothing about him as a person, beyond his famous life, but the more you know, the less you actually know. He does not need to love me back, he can always pretend to, I will know it.

You are a stalker! He has a life and it is none of your business! I know he has a life, I am not stalking him in any way, I would never forgive myself if I would ever find myself running after him or proposing him, like others do. But I got so attached to him, indirectly, only from his sweet voice, his photos, his laugh and smile. But I can not let him go.

He knows nothing about me. I am just a fan standing there in a crowd, maybe holding a banner saying “Fuck me!”. But is there something special or interesting about me that he would be willing to know? I do not think so. It is enough for him to know that I love him and that I carry the torch for him, and he will run as much as his legs can!

Truly, the hardest part of being a fan is to get through with jealousy. It knocks me off immediately, it smashes me on walls and then it lets me hanker after him in despair, in the middle of my room, in a big swamp of hot salty tears. Every new photo with him and a fan, every new video, every touch, every kiss, every stalking make me go nuts and I mourn instantly and feel so miserable. Everyone will be better, more beautiful, hotter, luckier than you. They will always put you down. It’s the fear that he might find someone to love, only with a simple selfie. And that destroys my atomic hope. Hope is a word that, at these moments, it is a simple word from the dictionary.

He’s a man and I’m a…nobody! He can have the world at his legs. What for? We can have millions of things, but if not love, then what is the point? I sense how he is screaming and fighting for a real love, the purest and the most termless one. His songs break his walls of insecurity but they consolidate mine. It is just unbelievable how a person can make you feel, through this immortal distance. Lost, imperfect, joyless, but still blissful, safe, loved…Loved? What if he really loves someone, what if he has already found the one? I would be happy, but everything will have a bitter taste.

What a stupidity! Who would even dance in the dark? Me. I put my headphones on and express myself while dancing. His voice seems closer, the dark forms his perfect shape of body. I feel him, I feel how he pulls me close giving my sanity back, into his intimate world. It is a perfect sensation running through my whole body, mixed with these little sparks of hope. But then everything stops and a door opens. A powerful light strikes my whole room. It blinds me. I breathe heavily while entering in the racking reality of our days. He was not there; I lost the count, how many times he was there, but not physically, not even with his soul?

Why do I cry over someone who is not in my life, and will never be? Many told me that dreams come true; if you can dream, you can do it. But we all know it will never happen. The ones who will read my story will consider me such an obsessed girl, hopeless, pessimistic, pathetic, that I have such an incredible ‘power’ of feeling someone and actually knowing someone, though I have never had the chance to. I respect their opinion and I agree with them. That is who I am. Who would know I would be the person I am today?

The more I fall for him, the merrier he will distance. It is our destiny: I am made to love and protect him in the dark, while he conquers millions of hearts, all waiting for the same thing as me. Nothing and no one can change what is already been written…

And I am still the same: trying to be normal on the outside, to not show my craziness, but craving and begging for love, attention, comprehension and care. I know I can not do anything more, and/or better. It is the only thing I am really good at: making my own reality, shaded by a ‘slight’ touch of an insane and delirious depressive mind, created by the one who will never notice the struggle of being a fan…