However, success overtook us and by 1977
we were playing in football stadiums.
The magic, crushed beneath the weight of
numbers. We were becoming addicted to
the trappings of popularity.
I found myself increasingly alienated in
that atmosphere of avarice and ego until
one night in the Olympic Stadium, Montreal,
the boil of my frustrations burst.
Some crazed teenage fan was clawing his
way up the storm netting that separated
us from the human cattle pen in front of the
stage screaming his devotion to the demi-gods
beyond his reach.
Incensed by his misunderstanding and
my own connivance, I spat my frustration in
his face.
Later that night; back at the hotel
shocked by my behaviour I was faced with a choice.
To deny my addiction and embrace that
"comfortably numb" but "magic-less" existence
or accept the burden of insight, take
the road less travelled and embark on the
often painful journey to discover who I was
and where I fit.
The Wall was the picture I drew for myself
to help me make that choice.
