Keep the Faith
Be a Star
There was a man, born from the dingiest darkest depths of the world. He had a name, but that didn’t matter. Nothing of that sort mattered when it came to it. He strived to create works of art. They laughed, their immaculate features gruesome as the muscles in their faces worked. He poured his heart and soul into his creations. They turned up their noses, the layers upon layers of cosmetics slathered onto their faces giving them an eerie walking doll appearance. His very fiber yearned to create, to master, to make change, not be part of a money hungry machine.
True art was not art in this unfamiliar and confusing place. Manufactured bubblegum artists and armies of mindless clones reigned supreme. Lollipop heads, airheads, you name it, were stapled over glossy magazine covers, as fake as the lies spread in the gossip columns. Fake hair, fake nails, fake body parts, fake names, fake opinions, fake words. Brand name, designer clothes bought with the money of faceless admirers. Money was spread as quickly and freely as the common cold. Noise was deafening, a roar so harsh and loud that it put pressure on the man’s ear drums and made him dizzy.
The man felt suffocated amongst the superficial deities, faces perfectly sculpted from computer made programs and mass produced lines. He couldn’t find a place between the numerous bleach white smiles, teeth as precisely placed as picket fences so very reminiscent of the stereotypical suburban home.
The haunting vixens with their sultry moves and the deadened artists with their mute mouths; nothing to say. Not a thing, not a thing. Regurgitated spiels and rehearsed lines sprung to life on their tongues as fake smiles curled their ruby red lips. He wanted to scream, he wanted to go stand in his lonely corner and scream until he had nothing left in his lungs, nothing left to vent. He wanted his lungs to tear and blood to spurt from his mouth just as the screams did, so he could make sure that this wasn’t a terrible dream. But his lungs remained intact and fully functioning, and the sound just bounced back. Echoing, echoing, echoing. Mocking his very existence in this grotesque and perfected society.
"I'm not like you!" The screaming echoed, almost piercing enough to burst blood vessels in his brain as it echoed all around him. He almost wished it would. "I'm not just a face! I'm not a machine!"
His screams, his protests were in vain. He couldn’t get through to them; their eyes were sightless, their ears unhearing. But he wouldn’t surrender.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
That was never part of this man’s plan.
It was under the cover of night, when all the perfect Barbies and their flawless Kens were either sleeping in their pristine beds with candy coloured covers and matching pillow cases, or out on the town, living in up with dirty money – that the man worked. He had a vision; it was fledging, just a brainchild that needed an opportunity to spread its fragile wings and set flight, but it was the foundations of something incredible. With a brightly burning oil lamp as his only source of light and warmth, he created.
His pen soared over each crumpled page with the grace of a dove, ink seeping into the delicate paper and imprinting all his aspirations into words. The words were visually stunning and the sounds that existed in his head were like magic; not the mere pulling of strings on the arms of submissive puppets or the sweat of tireless and nameless writers. No, no, no. He wasn’t aware of it yet, but he had in his hands a snippet of history.
The piece was finally mastered, and the man left his private hideaway, shielded from the harsh lights and fake faces. He sought out the support and friendship of similar minded souls. People who were just that – people. Beings with flaws. Not surgically perfected plastic robotic dolls.
Between the five of them, they intertwined their various gifts, their talents; adding on to the eloquent word structure. Music was music amongst these men, an art form to be admired. Each beat, each pluck of a string, each vocal tone had a purpose. For the first time throughout his entire existence, the man felt he belonged somewhere. His future lay with the four men beside him, creating wondrous sounds and life altering words.
That ominous roar, once so frightening and defeating, had transformed into something beautiful, something inspiring. Hundreds upon hundreds of admiration scarred faces smiled up to him. Like sunflowers to the sun. For he was their sun in a way. A brilliant star burning bright and illuminating their way. And they were ready to follow; through the ageless wars and the darkness, into the unknown and above the crushing downs. Hands raised high, fists clenched tight and brave smiles, real real smiles stretching those once mask-like faces.
We. are. not. afraid.
True art was not art in this unfamiliar and confusing place. Manufactured bubblegum artists and armies of mindless clones reigned supreme. Lollipop heads, airheads, you name it, were stapled over glossy magazine covers, as fake as the lies spread in the gossip columns. Fake hair, fake nails, fake body parts, fake names, fake opinions, fake words. Brand name, designer clothes bought with the money of faceless admirers. Money was spread as quickly and freely as the common cold. Noise was deafening, a roar so harsh and loud that it put pressure on the man’s ear drums and made him dizzy.
The man felt suffocated amongst the superficial deities, faces perfectly sculpted from computer made programs and mass produced lines. He couldn’t find a place between the numerous bleach white smiles, teeth as precisely placed as picket fences so very reminiscent of the stereotypical suburban home.
The haunting vixens with their sultry moves and the deadened artists with their mute mouths; nothing to say. Not a thing, not a thing. Regurgitated spiels and rehearsed lines sprung to life on their tongues as fake smiles curled their ruby red lips. He wanted to scream, he wanted to go stand in his lonely corner and scream until he had nothing left in his lungs, nothing left to vent. He wanted his lungs to tear and blood to spurt from his mouth just as the screams did, so he could make sure that this wasn’t a terrible dream. But his lungs remained intact and fully functioning, and the sound just bounced back. Echoing, echoing, echoing. Mocking his very existence in this grotesque and perfected society.
"I'm not like you!" The screaming echoed, almost piercing enough to burst blood vessels in his brain as it echoed all around him. He almost wished it would. "I'm not just a face! I'm not a machine!"
His screams, his protests were in vain. He couldn’t get through to them; their eyes were sightless, their ears unhearing. But he wouldn’t surrender.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
That was never part of this man’s plan.
It was under the cover of night, when all the perfect Barbies and their flawless Kens were either sleeping in their pristine beds with candy coloured covers and matching pillow cases, or out on the town, living in up with dirty money – that the man worked. He had a vision; it was fledging, just a brainchild that needed an opportunity to spread its fragile wings and set flight, but it was the foundations of something incredible. With a brightly burning oil lamp as his only source of light and warmth, he created.
His pen soared over each crumpled page with the grace of a dove, ink seeping into the delicate paper and imprinting all his aspirations into words. The words were visually stunning and the sounds that existed in his head were like magic; not the mere pulling of strings on the arms of submissive puppets or the sweat of tireless and nameless writers. No, no, no. He wasn’t aware of it yet, but he had in his hands a snippet of history.
The piece was finally mastered, and the man left his private hideaway, shielded from the harsh lights and fake faces. He sought out the support and friendship of similar minded souls. People who were just that – people. Beings with flaws. Not surgically perfected plastic robotic dolls.
Between the five of them, they intertwined their various gifts, their talents; adding on to the eloquent word structure. Music was music amongst these men, an art form to be admired. Each beat, each pluck of a string, each vocal tone had a purpose. For the first time throughout his entire existence, the man felt he belonged somewhere. His future lay with the four men beside him, creating wondrous sounds and life altering words.
That ominous roar, once so frightening and defeating, had transformed into something beautiful, something inspiring. Hundreds upon hundreds of admiration scarred faces smiled up to him. Like sunflowers to the sun. For he was their sun in a way. A brilliant star burning bright and illuminating their way. And they were ready to follow; through the ageless wars and the darkness, into the unknown and above the crushing downs. Hands raised high, fists clenched tight and brave smiles, real real smiles stretching those once mask-like faces.
We. are. not. afraid.