I used to love football, I still thoroughly enjoy the black&white footage of Garincha and Pele performing in Brazil’s golden team. I stopped loving it and watching it a long while ago. Today’s soccer is no longer a joyful game, but a multi-billion commercial machine, almost lacking any entertaining features, a meaningless and ugly venture on the green field as everyone knows everything being done is done purely for the money. The aura of (local) glory that’s being manufactured and thoroughly maintained around the teams is sickeningly phony. All the “entertainment” has moved into the pages of tabloids, that thrive on the football world’s petty scandals.
Or Brad Pitt. Never. Assuming you want to. If you don’t, read no further, because your unhappiness does not come from such trivial matters.
So, you day-dream and you yearn and your eyes keep getting wet and your heart pounds faster when you think of/see your new found idol. You imagine how you could make everything perfect for him/her if only this shitty life gave you a chance. Maybe you see yourself walking in their godly shoes, maybe you see yourself as being thought of by millions as you think of your idols. You sigh and watch those dear movies and concerts, you buy the DVDs, the memorabilia and so forth. You’re a fan. That makes you a fanatic. That is to say you have come to idolatrize an image. Make no mistake, this image is of your own making; they suggested it to you and you infused it with your ill-channelled hopes and dreams, as always taking the easy way towards cheap self satisfaction. You crossed the line between entertaining yourself and tormenting yourself with the unreachable. This you did for what even a superficial analysis reveals as being nothingness. Please aknowledge that you just managed to fill the void from within with some nothingness from outside! Congratulations. I’ve once watched a show about Madonna’s (oh, what a pun!) fans. I was particularly struck by this young, beautiful woman that was a die-hard devotee. She collected everything she could get her hands on, related to her goddess, she had all the albums and compilations, T-shirts and posters, everything. She was young, truly beautiful and popular amongst her friends. She was a hell of a woman, if you ask me. She could have been someone’s goddess herself, easily. Her face inspired. Yet she strangely chose to be only some fan, with an entire existence revolving around Madonna. That was all she talked about. She once saw her idol up-close. That’s where her young life peaked. And gave her something fabulous to talk about. She didn’t look happy at all. She looked hysteric.