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You know, fame was always something that crossed people's minds. Everyone wanted to fit in, at least in some type of way, but for Syd, he was all about the art of it. He didn't mind being late to practice to catch a couple more hours of shut-eye. No, he didn't mind his bandmates, especially Roger, getting snappy with him for not playing the chords the same way every time they practiced. He didn't mind.
If it were up to him, he wouldn't be caught up in the social machine. He didn't quite like the way others perceived him, especially when they told him how insane he was becoming. He was going "mad" in their eyes, but he didn't feel that way. Syd would look into the mirror and see his short black curly hair. He examined his face. He still looked the same. He had a pretty small frame still, and his eyes weren't leaking out of his skull. So what were they on about?
"Have you got it yet?" His words ran through his bandmates' ears. He was done. He was finished. He was being kicked out. Replaced. Sent away to the mad house.
Years later after his solo albums didn't quite work out, he found himself in the studio he once recorded in. Now he was the observer and his friends were the stars. He was no longer shining to them, they could barely recognize him now.
He didn't mind. He didn't mind how he looked, he couldn't care less. He was still alive, wasn't he?
"Look over there, who is that guy?"
"I don't know. Who invited him?"
"Wait. No. Is that?"
"That can't be him."
Roger's eyes welled up at seeing that his old friend had turned into a shell of himself. "It's Syd."