Silence.

Silence.

The sound of solitude.

It exists in the absence of cheers and laughter, apologies and forgiveness, pleads and sobs.

Indeed sounds of sorrow are painful, but at least they are still heard. Silence, on the contrary, is a pain of no noise.

Silence is deceptive. It tricks the listener to think of calm or serenity, but upon an extended period, its emptiness fills one's being and strangles one's eardrums, until one is forced to squeak to escape its all-encompassing doom.

It is the most deafening of sounds. It brings the most pain.

My ears ring as I stare out into the vastness of the empty stadium. A mere two hours ago it was filled with sounds of fans singing their favorite songs amidst a lively band and, of course, the lead singer, myself. Their cheers were tumultuous and their joy was palpable. 

But now, they have all moved on.

I wish for nothing more than the chance to bottle up the feeling I get whilst performing on stage. I wish to use it to fill the empty pit that infects my chest when I am alone.

I wish for the ability to remember every single face I witness each night I perform; from those whose tears stain their cheeks to those whose cheeks ache from their abundant smiles. I wish to be friends with each and every one of them.

I wish I never would have to leave them.

My fans send me letters and social media messages expressing their adoration for my music. They accompany themselves with large signs at my shows to hope to tell me in person.

I am aware how much I mean to them, but I wish they were aware how much they mean to me.

I try my best to express my never-ending gratitude at every show I perform. I respond to as many messages and letters as I can. I try to read every sign. But, how can I express my genuinity? Of course a person would thank the thousands of patrons who provide them with proper shelter and food on their table. But I struggle to find a way to express how they save me, each and every night, from succumbing to the painful doom of silence. 

My eyes drift across the sea of abandoned plastic cups, scattered rainbow confetti, deflated balloons, and countless feathers that have escaped from colorful boas. The absence of my fans is a pain only matched with that of the silence. It feels as though a black hole has been placed in my abdomen. I feel it grow in solitude but retract in the presence of my dear fans. I chase the feeling of its retraction. It is why I have toured for nearly three years straight, writing and producing songs along the way. People fear I may overwork myself, but it is when I am alone that I feel most exhausted. I fear loneliness. Performing for my fans and interacting with them has been my sanctuary for years. It keeps me sane.

Or at least it did.

On the stages I crave to stand upon, I sing songs of love, though I no longer feel its reach; I sing songs of heartbreak, though of the wrong sort; I sing songs of inexplicable joy, though I have not even felt a shred of true bliss in ages. I sing songs of a different woman who is confident and resilient and happy.

The songs I truly connect to, I keep hidden away. I fear my fans love only the woman I present, not the one who remains concealed. If I were to play the songs my heart sings, will they still scream along? Will they still cheer for me? Will they still write me letters and messages? Will they still carry signs?

Will they still love me?

I fear the choice does not exist. Every passing day, it becomes more difficult to leave my hotel room, to scribble lyrics of love, heartbreak, joy, to venture to the stadium, to vocalize songs I no longer connect with, to memorize faces, to leave it all behind.

Every day I can only write songs of the pain of solitude, of hopelessness. I fear they one day must escape to protect my sanctuary.

Every day is increasingly difficult. I am the pea beneath the princess's mattresses, bearing all of the weight but never being truly acknowledged or seen.

I know I am far from alone. My family reminds me of their love nearly every day. My friends attend each one of my shows that they are near. I have received awards and accolades. I have been presented on the cover of many magazines and talk shows. Yet, I find it impossible to shake the feeling that I am simply not good enough. Or the maddening feeling of loneliness. It is the cousin of silence. It is just as painful, just as deceitful. For how can one be surrounded by loved ones and still feel as though they travel through life with no assistance? How can I perform for thousands of fans every night and still feel as though my place on this Earth is irrelevant? How can I have paved my way from nothing and still feel as though I do not deserve the spotlight I stand in?

I hum a gentle tune. It is not one of a comforting lullaby by mothers or a swoon-worthy ballad by lovers. It is one of grief. Grief over the part of myself who began this expedition, who put my dreams into action. I fear she no longer lives. The black hole has consumed her and now only the memory of her passion lingers. I fear that no one else has recognized her absence. She is lost at sea without a party to search for her.

My voice softly echoes throughout the empty stadium.

The silent stadium.

For if no one is near the tree when it falls, does it even make any noise?