All My Idols Are Dead

I think one of my favorite emotions, other than indifference, is idolization.

Maybe because idolization is so warped. I think it perfectly captures the perpetual and naive human condition. Has all the markers of some semblance of divine love, but it’s sickly, and rightfully so, since it’s all heartache and delusional. But if you’re going to write a story there has to be some idolization in it. It’s the vehicle by which many chart the rest of their existence.

Idolization has the best emotional arc to it too. Effortlessly, and painfully, imbuing the world in a magic all the others seemingly cast, and then you keep persisting and trying to cast your own magic as some feeble way of getting closer to what you think sustains you. Maybe one day you “succeed,” shamefully, out of subterfuge and sleight-of-hand, but a bunch others stood dazzled about it.

They didn’t know yet. Rising higher and walking near-pace half-level of those idols so cherished, with walls insurmountable and broken. Til distance is well defined then; Up close enough you see their charred souls.

And when you lock yourself in a room for long enough, rubbing sticks together for green sparks to smoulder of something inevitably snubbed, before lights out, I don’t know, I still get these visions of complete and total awe and wonder. I could reach out and stand amazed all of these interconnected cities, gadgets. Imaginary real estates. What possibility, and they’ll make the world wonderful, for free. To be so convinced there’s a hidden melody and you’ll add your meagre note, and now your falsities slink through scattered ensembles. And the applause, but you know the wiltedness, don’t you?

Standing higher up, but everyone else is dead now. They’re right in front you, as the flashshot of whatever source of wonder attributed then. Perhaps one meanders past the typical jaded heartbreak metamorphosis, if you can.

All one did was chased what seemed so wonderful and a mild insane.
So twisted about idolization.
It bars you from finding magic in the world alone, rather than through illusions.

If you didn’t get invested in these shadows, well, surely you’d still swell with awe, you’d admonish. There’ll always be spellbinders of every year, I suggest, but I let you snatch the flashlight. No more smashed beacons, you’d tell me. And you unconsciously add another silhouette to the sleepover wall.

Well, I’ll try out your utopia. No more smashed beacons.