It was then, on the morning of 29th July 2010, that I realised I wanted to be bigger than The Beatles. To be bigger than Michael Jackson, Bowie, and Jesus himself. I awoke at five with fatigue-stained tears in my eyes. Sunlight was pouring in my window from a large crack in the curtain. It was a beautiful sky. The same sky in the same area used to look up at as a child. The internet can be a burden for your dreams. My idols, through all my dedication and hours of listening, remain as silent as a blank canvas to me. If only they understood my interest in everything they do. Perhaps then, not now. The bands I listen to, I see as dust in the wind. Dust on the shelves, in the corners of the roof, under the bed. Will they matter in twenty years time and, infact, do they matter now at all? What kind of pleasure would the most crazed and famous Beatles fan feel unless they are on the same par as their heroes. What? I don't see anything.

If I had one wish it would be to play God for a day. To be more well known than the speculation, the disease, the figure, the illness himself and all his rumour. All these people you waste your life fantasising about and worshipping. Your musical Gods and Godesses. What remains unseen to my eyes is how little you play a role in any of their lives. You might aswell be the homeless person who politely begs as they scurry past. The shop assistant bagging their groceries, the rat exterminated from their drainpipe. I don't blame this on them, it is a brutal necessity of life. They know they have fans but they do not know their fans. Realistically, who could come to personally meet and greet every one of you? Just like we, as individual specimen, have fans. Our friends are, for the most part, fans of what we do. The shit music we try and recreate by our heroes in our ugly bedrooms, the obsessive picture-sticking on it's walls, our self-confessed love for the way they walk, talk and think. We probably think about them more than their own wives. Our whole empathic existance lived primarily through the screen of TV and the speakers of stereo.

But what will they matter in twenty years time? What will you matter? Try and emulate your heroes and then die disappointed. Perhaps, for the most part, your heroes have no idea of the effect they have on your entire conscious. I know that by living this way my entire teenage life, I wake up most mornings a very lonely young woman. Traded socialising for music listening. What did they ever give back to me? The only people who reside on their walls are their own heroes. And who else but heroes of them. So many lyricists that had so much to say lay undiscovered only because they hadn't the fans to give a shit. And because of what, their beauty, wealth, nationality? Lyrics are entirely subjective. Entirely personal. By this mentality, the things John Lennon and Paul McCartney said are just as important as the lyrics some 13 year old kid scribbles into his notebook during Science lessons. Minus generating the musical inspiration of an entire nation, of course. Lyrics alone, are nothing, and can be said by a nobody.

Drinking coffee, making music, withering in pretension. Teasing and flattering. If only I were convinced that they did the best they could. Fame is the worst thing to happen, not only to an actor, but to every person disguised in spotlight. You think you understand, no, you believe you understand their anguish, woe and lyrical mentality. You presume to know. You then realise that you'll never know if you got it right. They discard it. The letter you wrote, the email you sent, the three hours you dedicated to getting every line exceedingly perfect. Hell, even that time you queued to see them in the pouring rain only to be greeted with a subtle "hello" and to remain unlooked upon in the face.

It is only through this isolation that I crave fame at all. The mentality, the adoration. Not only in my lifetime, but in the lifetime of my own musical heroes, be they still alive when I get there. Then my time will arise to be listened to intently through their headphones and straight to the eardrum of their conscience. To be on their walls, in their heads, unable to get out. This I find suitable repayment. Repayment for being such a disappointment to finally meet.

"It is the garment of my misery. The whole world ... is the garment of my misery."