The music swells around me and intoxicates me beyond comprehension. I am stunned to the amazement that music can flow through my body and dance with the blood that pulsates with the fast tempo of the beat. The speakers caress my ears, whispering sweet nothings until I find myself leaning closer to get a small taste of what it might be like to be apart of the music. My eye lids flutter gaily as the crowd sways with the violence of warriors battling for the treasure that is his face. I was close enough to see the small drops of sweat drip down his face as he worried that maybe his music was getting old, and that no one would show. That all these people weren’t here to see him, but instead they blew in with the wind and would blow away if he let out his breath too fast. His hair tangled around the microphone as he sung a sweet serenade that I hoped was for me. But to him, I was just another fan whom loved him dearly; I was just another fan in just another city that was just another tour. He didn’t know me, he didn’t know my name and he didn’t care to know me because I was paying money to see him, money that would fly from my hand to his wallet and from there who knows. But in my mind, he knows me. He knows my face; he knows me by name hoping that one day I will bump into him on the streets so that we can talk lips to lips; and as I watched his lips gently brush over the microphone, I wished it was me so that my lips would graze his. My heart stops even at the thought of it and even though my make-up swam down my face in an attempt to escape, I knew that he saw me. Each time he passed me and stuck his hand out, it was for me. Each time he talked to the large crowd that thirsted for his every word, he was talking to me. The sweat dripped down his chest and pooled at his pants line until he ran across the stage and I watched it fly onto the crowd. His hands were white knuckled as he gripped the mic hoping that it does not fly away from his fingers and that the show would run smoothly. I could see Mitch, one of the people whom toured with him as a stage hand, standing on the side lines. Whether his face was that of envy or that of remorse, I could not tell. But I watched as his tongue flipped over his lips showing that he was hungry to be on stage and have fans adoring him, and instantly I felt bad. But maybe I was wrong, each time that I saw them in concert, I saw Mitch, and each time I saw him, I said hello. He looked at me odd and brushed me off as if I was just another hard-core fan girl, but I am more. Or am I?

My name is Madison and I am an addict. I am addict to the sweet voice of Ronald Joseph Radke, and I cannot get over this love that lies in the bottom of my heart like an anchor holding a boat down to the bottom of an ocean. To him, I am just another fan whom adores him and loves his music and his being. To me, he is a man whom I love and whom I wish knew me. And together, we make up the true essence that is music, the love and adoration for one and the ignorance and disregard for another.