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I thought of everything I was leaving behind—the stage, the crowds, the incredibly exciting life of touring, nights spent at the studio with the musicians, the life of an artist, and traveling around the world.

At every performance, as soon as the countdown started, there where pangs in my heart, as I experienced that magical contact with the audience, when we really connected and were so close, so together, the current between us flowing so perfectly.

Bringing a crowd to its feet is such an amazing feeling that noth­ing in the world can replace it. And I felt that I'd miss those electri­fying moments terribly. At the end of each show, I always told the audience: "I'm taking you with me. You'll always be in my heart."

So I left with all these people in my heart. All I needed to do was close my eyes to sense their presence, to hear them. . . . Still, a mem­ory, even a happy one, can never replace reality; it's never as moving, as thrilling, or as true. All memories, even the strongest and most cherished, inevitably end by losing their color and clarity.

I have gone through extraordinary live experiences. I have traveled the world; I have met people I will never forget. I have been pam­pered, loved, and acclaimed.

But there was always stage fright, pressure, bigger and bigger crowds every day, larger and larger stadiums. It's been terrifying. And it's been good, really good.

I had become a real "stress junkie." I needed my dose every day. Every time I stopped, I went into withdrawal, and didn't feel right about myself. Marathoners who are kept from running because of an injury apparently experience nausea, dizzy spells. And they say that no one is more depressed than a cyclist who just finished the Tour de Prance, even if he won.

Therefore, the prospect of living a stress-free, quiet, cozy life seemed stressful to me. I thought I'd have to struggle to decompress from stress and discipline, to forget my voice, to get free of it. Dur-

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