Even When I Hate You

Even When I Hate Myself

I know exactly how I look to others: dangerous, as if a single glance or gesture is enough to take control. Magnetic, because they all know they want me. And unapproachable, because they sense I'll never be theirs. This image isn't accidental. It's carefully constructed—a role I've been perfecting for years.

But deep down, I know there's a storm brewing. I'm just waiting for it to hit.

Maybe I'll find a way to numb it for a few more hours. Maybe I won't.

The meeting with my team was supposed to be short. That's what they always hope for anyway. But as usual, I already know it'll take longer than they think. The room is filled with faces I've seen a hundred times before, all wanting a piece of me, all thinking they can steer the ship.

I look around, cigarette between my fingers, and it's obvious. Every single one of them is waiting for me to either blow up their neatly laid plans or approve what they've been working on for weeks. They're all holding their breath.

"We need to finalize the dates for the tour," someone says, trying their hardest to sound like they're in control. Of course, they're not. They all think they're calling the shots until I step in.

I take a drag from the cigarette. "Push the Berlin show to the end," I say, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

The silence is immediate. I can practically hear them scrambling for a polite way to object. One of them starts, "But Berlin is..."

"End of the tour," I end his sentence, letting the words hang. No one challenges me twice.

They don't like it, I know. It messes with their schedules, their press releases, whatever bullshit they've got lined up. Working with me is a fucking nightmare for most of them, and I know it. In this part of my work, I'm unpredictable, impossible to pin down, often not rational, and they hate it. But they also know I'm the reason they're still here, still relevant. Because as much as they can't stand me, they need me. No one does what I do.

I'm not here to make their lives easier. I'm here to make music. And as long as I deliver, they'll swallow their complaints.

I exhale, the smoke curling into the air like their nervous energy filling the room. They shift uncomfortably, refocusing on their scripts—appearances, interviews, the usual garbage. It's the part I hate most. But they know better than to ask me to play nice. They're here because I don't.

"Just make sure the next album's right," I say, cutting through the noise. "Every track. No fillers. And don't send me any of those flavor-of-the-month artists for features."

One of them shifts uncomfortably. He knows exactly who I'm talking about. I've walked out on deals before, refused tracks because they didn't feel right. And they all know I'll do it again. They don't understand what music really is about, what it does to people.

The meeting starts to wind down, but I'm not even fully here. My mind is already pulling away, focusing on the one thing that actually matters: the music. Not the business, not the bullshit image they're so desperate to sell. It's the music that moves me, that makes the chaos worthwhile. Because in those moments—when it's just me, the beat, and the words—everything fucking clicks. The noise in my head goes quiet, and for a few minutes, I'm not thinking about what's missing, what's broken inside me. It's just... pure.

I never talk about it, though. If they knew, they'd twist it, try to market the 'artistic side of Noir Weiss,' some crap like that. They don't get that this isn't just about making hits or staying relevant. It's survival. Music is the only thing that pulls me out of the dark. The only thing that stops me from losing it.

They see the bad boy, the rebel. They see the money, the fame, the fucking glamour. They don't see the hours in the studio, alone with the music, perfecting every note, every lyric. Pouring all my heart into it, how it's the only time I let myself feel something real, feel everything, where my demons don't fucking eat me alive.