The Burning (Wo)man
She was a star. That much was certain. Not the fleeting kind that burns too fast or too bright, but the kind that radiated—warm, steady, and knowing. She didn’t just light up a room; she lit up everyone around her. She made you feel like yourself. No Robbins best-seller, no self-help guru could replicate what she could do.
She could see you—your talents, your gifts—and in seeing you, she made you believe. But stars... even the brightest ones, don't shine forever. She found her way into show business...modeling, commercials, movies, shorts...songs... you name it. The exact opposite from where we once shared chemistry classes. I watched from a distance as the world recognized her glow. She had made it—or at least, she was exactly where she had always said she’d be.
Then...I heard things weren’t well. So, I visited.
What I saw was unnerving.
The same person who once illuminated others had dimmed, her energy no longer a beacon...but a desperate flicker. She who once spent her time uncovering the gifts in others had turned to using her gifts to manipulate unassuming strangers. Unsanctioned survival had replaced purpose and expression.
The performance no longer ended when the curtain dropped. I watched as she convinced a friend to file a FEMA claim despite not being a fire survivor. I watched that friend hesitate, reluctant but tethered to her—out of love, a crush, or maybe just the quiet desperation to support someone they still believed in. I watched them both cry in front of FEMA officials, the same ones who had volunteered after their own experience with The Storm. The tears were convincing. Oscar-worthy. They moved from table to table, collecting sympathy for a script they never rehearsed. But, were they really crying for FEMA? Or were they crying for themselves? Tearless weeping.
I sat with the question: Is this what she has to do to continue the masquerade of an artist who won’t quit? Or is she just down on her luck? She had once been an artist. Now she was performing one. There’s a difference between the two, and I could feel it in the space between us. I was puzzled.
She wasn’t lost—not completely. But she WAS holding onto something that was slipping through her fingers. As if she had become a caricature of what she thought an artist should be. I wanted to plead with her. I wanted to ask, why not go home? I know her family. Why not get a job? I know her brilliance. But I think I already knew the answer. She was too deep in the role. And there was no director to say "cut" or "bravo."
The starving artist.
The wild spirit.
The mystic who felt too much and knew too much to simply exist like the rest of us. She had fully committed, even when it meant scamming/scheming, even when it meant surviving instead of living. And then came the bigger question—the one that gnawed at me long after I left. Why did I stay? What took me so long to realize that the person I once knew wasn’t there anymore? She looked like my friend...sort of. Sounded like my friend...kind of. But her heart was covered. Everything about her was shifted. And it’s a strange thing, spending a day with someone you’ve never met, but you've always known. Even stranger knowing you won’t see them again. Somewhere along the way, the pursuit of something dictated by others—the drugs, the festivals, the endless search for a life that looked meaningful—had detached her from HER reality. From HER story. Maybe that’s the part that haunts me. The realization that it wasn’t failure that broke her, but the dream itself. Not even hers.
She didn’t let go of "the" dream. The Dream let go of her.
