I don't like being recognised, I have no interest in being famous

Host: The airport lounge was alive with that strange orchestra of travel — rolling suitcases, murmured announcements, and the steady hum of tired ambition. Beyond the wide glass windows, planes sat like mechanical birds, waiting for their cue to lift into the fading sunset sky. The light that filtered in was amber and fleeting, glinting off metal and glass — that peculiar beauty of movement and pause.

At one corner of the lounge, Jack sat in an overstuffed chair, his carry-on beside him, a cup of black coffee cooling slowly in his hands. His eyes, those sharp grey eyes, watched the crowd with detached amusement — people scanning phones, rehearsing importance.

Across from him, Jeeny was half-hidden behind a paperback, her dark hair falling loose over her face. She wasn’t reading; she was eavesdropping — not on conversations, but on life itself.

Between them, on the small table cluttered with coffee cups and boarding passes, lay a printed quote someone had scribbled from an interview:
“I don’t like being recognised, I have no interest in being famous at all, I just do what I do. If I could be like Captain Kirk and beam myself up and then beam myself down, I would!” — Bruce Dickinson

Jeeny: (grinning) “Captain Kirk. That’s such a Bruce Dickinson thing to say — both rock star and philosopher.”

Host: Her voice was light, playful, yet thoughtful — the sound of someone who understood the exhaustion hidden behind charisma.

Jack: (smirking) “Yeah. A man who spent decades screaming into microphones, and all he wants now is invisibility.”

Jeeny: “That’s the irony of creation, isn’t it? The moment you share something powerful, the world refuses to let you be private again.”

Jack: “Fame as a punishment for sincerity.”

Jeeny: (closing her book) “Exactly. You give the world a piece of your soul, and they decide it’s public property.”

Host: The intercom buzzed faintly — flight numbers and destinations — the poetry of modern dislocation.

Jack: “But it’s funny, isn’t it? People chase recognition their whole lives, and the ones who get it spend the rest of theirs trying to escape it.”

Jeeny: “Because recognition turns into distortion. The world stops seeing you — they see the version they’ve made up.”

Jack: “And fame makes you a ghost of your own myth.”

Jeeny: “A hologram in high definition.”

Host: The sound of laughter from a nearby gate filled the air, followed by the clatter of a departing flight. Outside, the sky deepened to violet, streaked with the contrails of planes heading toward their next story.

Jack: “You know, Dickinson was never like the others. Most rock stars crumble under fame. He flew planes, studied history, fenced competitively — he never worshipped the stage.”

Jeeny: “Because he didn’t need fame to validate him. That’s real power — to do something because it’s true, not because it’s visible.”

Jack: “Exactly. He played music the way some people breathe — not to be seen, just to stay alive.”

Host: She leaned back, gazing out the window at the glint of an aircraft wing reflecting the last fire of the sunset.

Jeeny: “That’s rare now. Everyone’s obsessed with being visible. We mistake visibility for value.”

Jack: “And call it achievement.”

Jeeny: “And mistake attention for love.”

Jack: “That’s the tragic currency of our time.”

Host: The wind outside shifted, making the glass panes hum faintly — a subtle vibration that seemed to echo the mood between them: thoughtful, restless, true.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about it, Jack? The irony that anonymity feels like freedom now? People fight to be seen until it blinds them.”

Jack: “Yeah. Privacy’s the new luxury. The quiet kind of wealth.”

Jeeny: “And the rarest kind of peace.”

Jack: “Because the moment the crowd knows your name, you start losing your voice.”

Host: A child ran past, laughing, her reflection streaking across the polished floor. Jeeny watched her — unfiltered, unseen — and smiled.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Dickinson meant. He wasn’t rejecting fame — just the noise that comes with it. The interference between creation and self.”

Jack: “He wanted to keep the signal clean.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To beam up, beam down — make art, skip the nonsense.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Yeah. The dream of every introverted genius.”

Host: The loudspeaker called a new boarding group. A voice, smooth and automated, filled the room: “Flight 243 to London now boarding.”

Jeeny: “You think anyone can live like that anymore — to do what they love and stay invisible?”

Jack: “Maybe not invisible. But authentic, yes. The trick is to want the work more than the applause.”

Jeeny: “That’s harder than it sounds.”

Jack: “It’s the difference between legacy and noise.”

Host: The airport lights brightened slightly as night descended — that sterile beauty of travel, where everything is temporary but nothing feels small.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was younger, I wanted to be famous. I thought fame was proof that what you did mattered.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I think silence is proof. When your work speaks louder than your voice, you’ve done something real.”

Jack: “That’s wisdom disguised as retreat.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Or peace disguised as maturity.”

Host: He looked at her then, his expression softening — something between admiration and melancholy.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Bruce understood. That fame is just another kind of captivity. Freedom is the ability to walk through a crowd and not be seen.”

Jeeny: “To exist without translation.”

Jack: “To live without applause.”

Host: A final boarding call echoed, pulling them back to the present. Jack picked up his bag. Jeeny stood, closing her notebook.

Jeeny: “You know, if I could beam myself anywhere like Captain Kirk, I wouldn’t go far. Just somewhere quiet enough to hear myself think.”

Jack: (smiling) “That’s the real sci-fi fantasy — solitude in a world that never stops talking.”

Jeeny: “And peace that doesn’t need permission.”

Host: They started walking toward the gate, their footsteps soft against the marble floor. The crowd around them moved like a tide — each person a blur of stories, ambitions, and arrivals.

And in that flowing anonymity, Bruce Dickinson’s words lingered like a note that refused to fade:

that fame is not fulfillment,
but friction;
that true greatness is not to be seen,
but to be sincere;
and that the highest freedom
is to create without audience,
to live without performance,
and to walk through the noise
still unseen, but understood.

The intercom fell silent.
The plane outside revved its engines,
its lights flashing briefly like a star about to rise.
And as they disappeared into the line of travelers,
the world — bright, busy, and oblivious —
kept spinning,
never noticing the quiet souls
who didn’t want to be famous,
only free.