Make a mess. Clean it up.

I was kind of blocked on what to do with this page. Make a Mess. Clean it up.

Then I realised I wanted to do writing, so I wrote down a bunch of scribbly words on one side (somewhat inspired by the movie Young at Heart which we were watching at the time), then I wrote a short story neatly, using the words.

Nothing is as it was before. The more I sing the less I feel like it sounds good, but I’m selling more records than ever before. The slings and arrows are still a part of life, of course, but the actual difficulty of day to day living has evaporated. I have an assistant who brings me noodles if I want them. She’s there for me every hour of the day.
“Would you mind going and getting me an ice cream sundae?” I can say, and she’ll do it.

The lights on the stage are bright. I feel them in my bones, reflecting, glowing inside of me hours after I’ve performed. “Can you run me a bath?” I’ll say.
“No worries, no worries,” she twinkles.

I’m meant to be writing a book. My agent, my editor is keen for it to be a tell all. “Young at heart,” she keeps saying. I can’t argue with that, for all it’s so cheesy. I traded my soul to a demon years ago.

“Forever young. I want to be forever young,” I said.
“I’ll do you one better,” the demon laughed. “I’ll give you some musical talent, success as well.” So the next day I woke up, “Today I become a star!” and it happened, easy as that. I guess it’s my own fault, I didn’t earn any of this, so why should I be allowed to enjoy any of it?

You are right, I said. You took my soul. You gave me this, and I feel wrong, blank, totally numb.

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