When I ceased to exist

 The sound of tires on asphalt. A protracted sound that vibrates in my ears and has been with me for over a year. A low hum so present that I get restless if I don't hear it.

I stare out of the window, looking at passing trees that cast shadows on the grass from the light of the rising sun. For a year now, I have been traveling on roads that take me to cities and concert halls where I perform with my band, get back on the bus and stare out of the window again. Until I lose consciousness and drift off into a kind of sleep.

Being on the road constantly for a year has never happened for us before. However, everything changed when our fifth studio album was released a year and a half ago. Nothing unusual happened at the start of sales; some of our fans had pre-ordered it when we released a single. We sold two hundred copies in the first week, which was way beyond our expectations. However, what happened in the following months was a childhood dream come true for all of us. First, a few people used snippets of our songs for their TikToks; these then went viral and a wider audience became aware of our music. We played a small tour that was completely sold out in all ten cities for the first time.

A month later, we received bookings for well-known festivals and interview requests, some of which we even had to turn down due to scheduling conflicts. Everything happened like in a frenzy: fast and unreal. After the release of our fourth album, when we almost didn't know how we were going to pay our rent, a major record company approached us six months later and made us an offer in the upper six-figure range to switch to them with our album catalog. We signed without hesitation.

This new contract was a kind of end to our past, which began in my parents' basement. Josh on drums, Karl: bassist, Tom: lead guitar, me: the singer and second guitarist in our band. We had met at a music school in the city, where we got to know each other at one of those concerts that exist solely for the enjoyment of parents and relatives. We were all dressed in band T-shirts and had our grumpiest expressions on our faces. Based on our T-shirts and disapproval of this event, we quickly struck up a conversation. Although we went to the same secondary school, we had never spoken to each other before as each of us would hide away in a different corner of the school during the breaks. While we had been lonely before, it was this evening that triggered a change in our lives. From then on, we never spent our breaks alone again. We were sixteen years old and it was clear to us from the moment we met that we wanted to form a band. As we all saw ourselves as rebels, the name was quickly decided: Rebellion, which we then changed to Storyline a year later. We combined two genres that we adored at the time: Sadboi pop-punk and metalcore.

We weren't exactly popular, as we saw most of the others as conformists and they in turn saw us as idiots with shitty taste in music who would never amount to anything. Even though we fitted the cliché of the unpopular kids who formed a band to break out of their town and surroundings, we were primarily interested in making music. The more time we spent in the rehearsal room, the more we realized that we had to get on stage.

Our first gig was in the bar of a friend of my family. Tim, the bar owner, who was almost bald - the last of his hair was neatly tied at the back of his head - only let us perform if we asked him repeatedly. I later found out that my father paid him something for it because he thought I would lose interest after the performance.

"No one will come anyway. You'd better get ready for it."

What my father hadn't counted on were the two weeks beforehand, during which we distributed flyers about our upcoming concert to every corner of our town. The closer we got to the gig, the more excited we became. There was no way around it for us, we had to perform, the inner urge was too strong.

The walls of the bar were painted a mustard yellow, the first sight of which made your eyes sting. The dark wood door frames rounded off the look. Tim pointed to a corner from which a blue carpet had been laid out.

"You can set up your stuff there," he said, wiggling his pigtail, which he always did when he didn't like something. We nodded and positioned our amplifiers towards each other, placing the drums as close to the wall as possible. In the end, we stood so close together that two thirds of the carpet, which measured three meters by three meters, remained free. Just before the concert started, shortly before seven, we lined up in a circle and waited. Beforehand, we looked around furtively and saw that some people from our school had come. Unsure whether they were watching us fail or were really here out of interest, we kept looking into the crowd. I counted just under fifty people standing around the counter and tables waiting. When Tim turned off most of the lights, only a single bulb illuminated the microphone that stood a meter away from our circle. Silence reigned.

First the lead guitar kicked in, then the bass, drums and finally I started to join in the melody with my guitar. I broke away from the circle and stepped into the light. The others turned to me and I screamed into the microphone as loudly and aggressively as I could. My body was shaking. It was like a release, the feeling of finally being alive, something I had longed for all my life. The others felt the same way, all excitement fell away from us, we were like a new person, playing our own compositions and cover songs. The people in front of us, who seemed stiff and shy at first, thawed out, started dancing, moshing and gradually dismantling the bar into its individual parts. Chairs flew, people jumped against tables. Tim was now shaking his hair more and more wildly and was about to turn off the power, but the people stopped him by holding him down and threatening him. Tim was so scared that he promised them he wouldn't do it, continued to pour drinks and watched as his entire interior was gradually turned into firewood.

The evening was characterized by a frenzy of music that changed those present. Those who had previously been quiet and shy were now kicking the tables and chairs the hardest. Others, who had previously had a smile on their faces, were now trying to shout every word.

After we had finished our last song, they shook themselves and fell back into their old roles. Those present clapped politely and left the bar as quickly as they could. Possibly because Tim had previously called the police from the next room, crying. As we looked at the destroyed tables and chairs, we smiled at each other. We didn't care that they had all left; we had touched something in them, released something.

I remember that evening so vividly because it gave us self-confidence and made me realize that we started as individuals and ended as an organism. That helped us through the next few years, when we moved out of home, set up a shared flat together in a big city and each of us enrolled on a degree course that only interested us in passing. What for others was a sure reason to break up their group, for us was the further deepening of our friendship and the ability to act as an artistic unit. Another advantage was that the four of us had almost the same character traits: reserved, empathetic, considerate. It sounds unreal, even dreamy, but each of us lives in our own world, which functions according to its own rules and yet works together as a group.

Music was the only thing that interested us, no parties, no alcohol. A life of abstinence and togetherness that outsiders repeatedly described as unhealthy. Over time, we were all we had, because even if people said they understood us, they understood the facts, but their hearts didn't feel the same. How could they?

After working on our fourth album for over a year and only selling five copies in the first week, it was only us who understood the pain. We realized that a year of sacrifice had yielded nothing: quitting our degrees early, quitting our temp jobs because we could barely cover our living expenses. We only had each other to support us and keep going.

Although we all have enough money in the here and now, none of us are moving out of our apartment because it marks the serious beginning, the highs and lows of our careers so far. Perhaps also to avoid being alone and on our own in some other apartment. Without the others, this apartment would just be a shell with four walls. Without the music and our band, we would just be aimless creatures moving from event to event.

The passing trees and signs hypnotize me. I climb out of my cabin, fill two mugs with coffee and take them to the bus driver. Sometimes he reminds me of Tim, except that he doesn't shake his hair when he doesn't like something. He nods as I put the cup of coffee in the cup holder. Silence reigns on the bus. Everyone else is asleep, which is what I should be doing, but I haven't been able to for a few days now. It's as if I've forgotten how to do it.

After getting such a response to our fifth album, selling out our tours and getting booked for big festivals, I stayed up too, but by choice. I wanted to savor every minute of this surreal new life. I was afraid that if I fell asleep, it would all be over. At the time, I couldn't believe that so many people were interested in my lyrics and the band's music.

Now, however, an inner silence robs me of sleep, not a pleasant one, but a lonely one. It's not just me, Josh, Karl and Tom feel the same way. We were just talking about it yesterday when our new manager Torben came up to us and told us that we should produce four new singles within a month after our tour. We just nodded and trudged into our tour bus. We were aware that we were obliged to do this; in our haste and euphoria we hadn't read the contract properly, let alone had it checked by a lawyer. I'm saying this in a know-it-all way, although I'm sure that if we had known about it, we would have signed the contract anyway, because you rarely, if ever, get a chance like this in your life. Conversely, we would have become slaves to entertainment either way.

"I already can't manage another show and we still have nine to go. What the hell does he think? That we've written four new songs on the side?" asked Josh to the crowd.

"Don't forget that we should also be working on a new album soon. If I'm honest, it's our own fault, we were just too naive. But somehow that's exactly what we wanted," said Tom, pointing to the inside of the tour bus.

"Yes, that could be," Karl interjected, "maybe we were naive and all, but did you think it would be so exhausting? I don't mean the tour, the whole thing, that nobody would leave us alone?"

We looked at each other and shook our heads.

"At the end of the day, the tour doesn't matter, we'd better start writing the four songs and start thinking about our new album in case they decide they want it soon," Tom said, looking at me. "Do you think you can manage that?"

Everyone looked at me. "Do you want me to be honest? I have no idea. I feel the same as you. Sure, I would have imagined it differently, but I can't back out now either. We haven't worked this long to give up now. Remember. Two years ago we almost wanted to quit and now look at us. It can be over quickly. I, ..., no, we can handle it. Don't worry about it."

They stared at me for a long time without saying anything. I tried to hide my worries from them, which I fortunately succeeded in doing as their faces relaxed a little. I had no choice but to write these songs as quickly as possible. I spent the whole night searching for lines, waiting for some kind of inspiration. The pain that I usually dealt with in my songs, the anger, this misplacedness in life, no longer existed. I seemed to have buried it all somewhere inside me, without knowing where.

I went through a phase like that once before. Shortly after our breakthrough, the record company first wanted two new singles, which they increased to five. In order to maintain our standard of constantly breaking new musical ground, we got into trouble. We had two months, but in the past it took us at least twice as long or longer to complete our work. Even I, who laid the foundations of our songs with the lyrics and rough melody suggestions, got into trouble. I didn't get the time I needed for a song, was desperate and looked for help on the internet. My original intention to find help with writing lyrics faster turned into seeking eternal success and happiness, which according to the books I came across on the subject could be achieved effortlessly. My focus changed to: inner satisfaction through capitalist achievement. I used to smile dismissively when people told me about such books; now I was so desperate that I ordered a few copies and read them. My critical thinking was out of order. Addicted to what the books said, I sank deeper and deeper into their banalities. I was eager to implement everything that the various self-proclaimed gurus were giving me with their money-granted wisdom. It all seemed a bit strange at first, but I thought that if only I could create the right environment, I would be able to fulfill the demands placed on me, because I knew that if these five songs didn't appeal to our newfound fans, we would soon disappear from the scene again.

My naive hope of becoming more productive and generally better at songwriting through the methods of these people eventually turned into something that can well be described as megalomania. Why only five when I could write twelve songs for a whole album? Without pausing, I threw myself into my work and couldn't stop myself. I didn't tell Josh, Karl or Tom about it. We had previously agreed that we would each compose a few melodies on our own. In two weeks, we would meet in the recording studio, listen to the melodies and lyrics and put everything together. Tom, who had a good feel for the overall arrangement of the songs, would then do the final mixes with our sound engineer before we discussed our final changes by listening to the songs together. Same as always. We tried not to have high expectations, but the four of us knew that these five songs had to be better than anything we had released before.

At the beginning of the two weeks, as recommended by these books, I set myself a morning routine, planned my day minutes in advance and forced myself to work as concentrated as possible. I also stopped talking to anyone during the day because I didn't want to break out of my creative compulsion. I visualized, meditated, worked with affirmations in which I told myself all day long how great, unique and creative I was and tried not to have any more bad thoughts. The methods I used had an effect. When the two weeks were over, I had composed twelve new songs. Not that I was lazy before, but I realized that I had been guided by my intuition rather than a planned working method.

An original day before would look like this: I would write one or two lines, then strum a few chords, walk up and down the room absorbed in myself, sit down again, write again, find chords or a melody again, interrupted by a walk, a jam session with the others or a nap. I went with the project rather than a structured plan. Sometimes a song required me to work at night, other lyrics I wrote early in the morning. Of course, there were phases, songs and albums that I wrote faster than others, but that was the exception rather than the rule.

Now, on the other hand, speed and quantity were the measure of all things. I wanted to be on top of things, to write so many songs that we could almost release another album that would catapult us to the top. Reality quickly caught up with me as I sat in the studio with the others and performed my songs.

Josh, Karl and Tom stood around me and listened to all twelve of my songs. When I finished with the last one, "Burn out in Paradise", they all fell silent. I took their silence as approving admiration when Tom raised his voice: "What the fuck is this? They all sound the same. What do you want me to play, huh, the same riff for everyone, just in different pitches?"

I was confused, this answer didn't fit into my imagination at all. "Why don't you write the songs next time? I'm working here from dawn till dusk and you can't think of anything better than calling it shit?"

Karl intervened and said: "Each of us has a little melody or an idea for a lyric, as with every album. You know it all comes together here. Besides, where's the bite, anger and sadness gone? Please don't get me wrong, but that sounds soft and superficial. If we record this, we're betraying ourselves."

"We have to," Josh said, tapping his fingers on his temples. "We've got four days to go and we haven't even really started."

"What were you thinking?" Tom asked me, but I couldn't give him an answer. I was so pleased to have done so much that I didn't even notice that it wasn't nearly my best work.

"I bet it's from the books you've been reading lately. Do you think we don't notice? We're like brothers and you don't talk to us for days, hole yourself up in your room. I told you that shit doesn't work. Maybe it works for some business hunks, but we're making music here. If you try to squeeze art into a system, squeeze it out, speed it up, all you get is bullshit!" Tom made a sweeping gesture towards the studio. "I know you wanted to do better, but that's not how things work. What you've done here is the final stage of capitalizing on our art. Yes, we have to make money to live and there's nothing wrong with that, but we simply can't fill the market with more meaningless nonsense. That's what's happening right now, what's been happening all along because nobody is thinking. No one has any patience anymore, everyone just wants to make money somehow, regardless of whether it's high quality or not." Tom breathed heavily.

"That's a good thing, all the pressure is on me. The songs, the melodies. I have to get the band to the top one day and get out of the shithole we're currently living in. I want that one day we won't have to worry about money anymore, everyone will be able to afford their own apartment and we'll have everything we want."

"You just don't get it, do you?" said Tom, taking his guitar off his shoulder and sitting down on the sofa next to him.

Josh, still drumming his fingers on his temples, now turned to me in a placating tone as well. "I think what he's trying to say, what we're all trying to tell you, is that we're not in it for infinite fame or money. Yes, it's nice that we have a bit more money now, but what has really changed? We will always have existential fears. A few songs that nobody cares about and we're irrelevant. You know that as well as I do. You are not and never have been alone, we are here for you and support you. Everyone has contributed a line, melody or arrangement in the past. Even if there are perhaps fewer songs than our colleagues, it's still more important to us that we don't produce content that's zero-eight-fifteen. If others do that: fine, I have no problem with that, but we originally wanted something else, didn't we? I also don't give a shit if we're still living together in our apartment when we're sixty. The main thing is that we're together. You know that despite all the attention, we only have each other."

"I've come to the same conclusion as them," said Karl. "We're all desperate, that's part of it. We knew that from the start. You've strayed into a world that's disconnected from what we're trying to create. All this business-self-help entrepreneur shit is finding its way into what should be completely untouched by it: the art itself. The place where we reflect and just are, without an ulterior motive of sales, networking and whatnot. It's all purely for its own sake, never for the thing itself, because it's never solely about the thing itself anymore." He looked at Tom and Josh, both nodding. "But you should have talked to us, not closed yourself off like that, then things might have been different." Karl turned away, his shoulders slumped and he sat down on the couch next to Tom and Josh. Everyone stared at the floor in front of me.

I didn't know what to say. My heart was pounding like crazy, I stood there and couldn't move. Basically, I wanted the best for our band. With that thought, I realized that wasn't true. I wanted the best for myself. I was looking for security where there was none, I wanted certain success, even though there is no guarantee of anything in this world. They were right and I couldn't admit it. I was a prisoner of my egoism, didn't know what to do and shouted at them with this realization: "You're crazy!" After that, I left the recording studio; let them do what they wanted with the songs, I didn't care.

I drove back to our apartment and symbolically slammed the door behind me. Then I stared at the two piles of books that promised me success and serenity. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, feeling my blood boil and all my limbs stiffen. I felt so ridiculous, blindly following some idiots who had sold me their scam. Once I even used a method where I visualized my goals and masturbated to them. The author of this method argued that the positive visualization of goals creates a clear image in the mind, which is firmly anchored in the subconscious during orgasm with the help of dopamine release. As a result, you should be able to achieve your goals effortlessly. With this scenario in mind, I felt even more ridiculous. I didn't want more money or more success. I just wanted to keep making music. My anger grew with every passing second. I clenched my fists so tightly that they turned white. Then I couldn't hold on any longer and rushed towards the books.

I threw them across the room, tore out all the pages, crumpled them up, tore them up, kicked them, insulted the pages so loudly, hoping their authors could hear me. I kept going until the floor of my room was covered in torn-out pages. Then suddenly Josh, Karl and Tom burst into the room. When I saw them, I sank to the floor and began to cry. There I lay, bedded on dreams that were never my own, but of people who knew nothing of our existence. My tears soaked the pages beneath me, the others knelt around me. They were everything to me and I had pushed them away. I was so ashamed that I started to hyperventilate. They took me in their arms and I felt connected to them again. My friends, brothers. They were more than that and I am still unable to describe that connection in words. The best thing was that they didn't say anything to me, they were just close to me.

When I had calmed down, they helped me to stuff the pages lying around into a bin bag. Later that evening, we went down to the courtyard together and stood in front of the paper container where I disposed of everything. An act that liberated me, that gave me back my strength. Now I knew what I could write about.

That evening, I went back to my room, pulled out a pile of paper and started writing again about my insecurities, shattered dreams, the inner pressure and the vulnerable, fragile me that inhabited me. I didn't have to force myself, everything flowed like the current of a river on which I was drifting away from the last few weeks towards a new existence. What had happened the day before was one of the worst moments in my creative career, but what came after was one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. A place outside of space and time, where night was not a time, but a feeling. I existed only as a bundle of feelings and expressions. A creative being that wrote notes and lines of text on paper.

By the next morning, I had composed three songs. After a few rays of light had found their way into my room, I was done. I collected the leaves, put them in a pile and when the sun was fully up in the sky, I realized that a part of me had disappeared. At first I searched desperately, but as I looked for it longer, I realized that this something inside me remained untraceable.

At this moment, I try to conjure up the feeling of that night, but I just stare at the passing trees. The approaching city with its silent expectations ripens an anxiety in my chest that forms a lump in my throat.

The bus driver's coffee is empty, mine too. I get up, take his cup and go to the back to refill them both. I watch the black brew as it pours into the yellowed paper cup. A thought flashes through my head.

I no longer exist.

First I look into the coffee, then the thought seems more and more logical to me. I am just an idea of myself. If I can't be creative, if there are no lyrics and notes flowing through me, I'm not alive. I don't know where this thought comes from. Something makes me think back to the night I wrote the three songs that were ultimately successful enough for us to go on this big tour. Now I realize it. Why didn't I realize that? I lost a part of myself in those songs that night. Maybe that's why they were so successful. From then on I had no more ideas, everything was gone. I remember: when I wrote the last line, I felt as if my innermost self had come to rest.

I'm still staring at the surging coffee in my hand. Have I gone crazy? I played the concerts, I see this cup, I can feel myself driving through the country on this bus. A feeling of helplessness rises up inside me. A bump in the road interrupts the feeling as coffee spills over my hand. I don't feel any pain, which almost makes me panic. Only the thought that I've been holding the cup in my hand for five minutes calms me down.

I go back to the driver, put the coffee in his cup holder, nod to him and walk to my sleeping cabin. When I get there, I look around the bus. All the curtains are drawn, no one is snoring. I listen in front of one of the black curtains, no sound penetrates it. I am gripped by renewed uncertainty, which I leave behind me with a shake of my head. In my mind's eye, I picture the bus driver's face, who looks more and more like Tim.

I climb into my cabin and am sure that everything that has happened recently must have been real; then I look out of the window of my sleeping cabin and see the passing trees. Something is missing, but I can't figure it out. I hold my breath, count to eight, breathe out again and repeat the process. Meanwhile, I think about what could be missing and get more and more tired. Just before I fall asleep, it occurs to me: the buzzing of the tires.

Five hours later, I wake up. The jolting of the bus has stopped. I rub my eyes and look through my window at a spruce forest that swallows up a considerable amount of the sun. I pause for a moment. The bus is so quiet that the sound of my breathing is the loudest sound. Full of questions, I pull back the black curtain and jump out of my cabin. I'm interested in what has happened and why we've stopped in a forest, but I don't see anyone. The bus seems empty, but the door to the outside appears to be open. I walk around the bus, pulling aside all the cabin curtains. There is nothing to suggest that anyone has been here recently. I go up to the driver, there is no coffee cup in the cup holder and no sign of him.

My heart beats faster, where has everyone gone? I leave the bus and circle it a few times, hoping the others are playing a trick on me. In vain, I don't spot anyone. Then I stop and look into the forest, which now seems all the more threatening. The trees come closer. In a way, it's still quiet, so quiet that my heartbeat is now pounding in my head like a hammer drill. Again I walk around the bus without really making sense of it. It gets darker with every lap, the forest gets closer. I feel the branch of a tree reaching for me, then I wake up.

"A dream, it was a dream," I mumble. My eyes sting, it stops jerking, the humming stops. For a moment, fear rises up in me again, I would still be trapped in the spruce forest. I pull open the curtain of my bunk. The bus is empty. Am I still dreaming? My throat tightens.

I roll out of bed and land on my feet. At least the bus looks busier now. Shoes and individual items of clothing lie on the floor. My gaze falls on the full coffee pot. A feeling returns, comparable to being invisible and blurring at the edges. The outside world pulls at me so that I feel as if I am dissolving. The walls of the bus crush me and I hurry outside.

This time, not a spruce forest, but the bright yellow sign of a restaurant chain that burns my eyes. Groups of people are standing in front of it, billows of smoke rising into the sky. I raise my hand and wave to them, but they don't notice me. An inner restlessness takes hold of me. I realize how my personality is becoming increasingly blurred. Is it true after all? Does I not exist?

My uncertainty drives me to want to find out. I walk towards the crowd, with each step I notice my self pouring out of its edges. I walk to the group, slightly apart. Two meters from their circle, I clear my throat, then hold my breath. Nothing. Josh just yawns, Karl and Tom look at the yellow sign and scuff their feet on the ground. So am I trapped in a reality where I'm condemned to watch others live their lives?

I try again and keep walking towards them. Just before I want to pat Tom on the back, I stop. Images of the spruce forest pass me by. I feel sad that I have to watch other people live their lives. My feelings return, along with the pain and a few lines. A weight falls off me, my body relaxes. Then I put my hand on Tom's shoulder, who turns around, looks at me and says: "I know that look."

I nod, tears running down my cheeks. Karl and Josh turn to us and know what this means. We hug each other and just stand there for a minute. Then we go into the restaurant with the yellow sign and each of us orders a coffee. As I sit down on a bench, euphoric and a little too jerky, the coffee spills over the edge in waves and pours onto my hand. I shake off the liquid, a throbbing pain emanates from the spot. I smile, happy to be alive.