Paul Nickels

I step off the stage, the lights still buzzing in my ears, and the sound of laughter echoing faintly as I make my way back to the dressing room. Another packed show in Las Vegas, USA. Another night of making people laugh. But the high, the rush—it’s gone as soon as the applause fades.

I throw my jacket over a chair, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The lines on my face are deeper now. Fifty-three. How did that happen? It’s strange, I’m more famous now than ever, performing almost every night on the Vegas Strip. But I feel more disconnected than ever. The bigger the crowds get, the lonelier the nights become.

I used to drink after shows. Drown the emptiness in whiskey, hoping it would fill the void. But that was years ago. I haven’t touched the stuff in a long time. Sobriety was supposed to help me find peace, but instead, it’s just left me alone with my thoughts. And lately, those thoughts have been louder than any audience.

I think about my ex-wife a lot these days. And our kids. They’re grown now, living their own lives, and I was never really there for them. Always on the road, always chasing the next gig. I became someone they didn’t recognize, someone I didn’t recognize. Distant. Cold. I wonder if they even think about me. If they miss me. God knows, I miss them.

I keep telling myself I’ll finish the next few weeks of shows here in Vegas and then... then I’ll stop. I’ll get help. Therapy. Maybe that’ll fix me. Maybe that’ll help me reach out to my kids. Maybe I’ll finally stop feeling like a stranger in my own skin.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? Thousands of people come to my shows to laugh, to forget their own troubles for a while. They see this guy who’s confident, sharp, full of life. But the truth? I’m none of those things. I’m just tired. And lonely. So damn lonely.