We’re fools for following oblivion into her blue dream


Eva Acker

My first time in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC was ruined by the embarrassment of not knowing magic carpet etiquette. I wasn’t walking, but at least I got a few good photos out of it.

A faultless gem casts no shadow, and still, the outline of its tantalizing foundation is overt, persistent in perpetuity.

Undisguised is she, twinkling in the darkness of those who’ve been invited—those that entertain their amenability are free to follow her. A shuffle of feet, the graceful brush of her digits and a scrape of her delicate nails, or her careful whisper behind the back, this precious gem is certain for its absolute beauty, of course.

Yet, the air is meager, and her observers feel spent. The beauty of materialism—mindless, much like a narcotic—succeeds any reason of logic and reality.

Ideas and dreams of being like her, a sacred object we, as vulnerable peers, have given her the right to be incriminating; the glory of being indifferent.

No wonder she’s on display for instinctually inquisitive minds. Naturally damaging and soul-touching, it’s unwitting. It’s vexing.

She drapes no shadow over her glazed being: she’s been laid to rest on a stage for the purpose of amusement and unawareness. The math calculates perfect degrees where the light should sit, positioned, and demonstrate how indefectible it is. A fashion show for inanimate objects that advance further than their limitations we’re exposed to. We’ve fallen in love with the idea of having unforgettable attention; we’re addicted.

Absoluteness. Idolatry. Unrivaled. We’ve created our own skewed perception of how the world turns for her followers. Forever evolving in the footsteps of the past we are, but never would we turn a foot and accept to defer from the rooted excellence perfection’s handling. Gems like her stifle psyche because of their own useless sentience.

We’ve been made to remain sacrificial to our indulgences, and oh, how we’ve tried to mimic her initiatives before but could never be comparable to a bewitching possession as such. She twinkles in the dullness of our society; the very one that will never reach equal bliss as a gemstone.

Selecting art to imitate is harrowing; however, life imitates art in mystifying ways and cannot be replicated no matter our valor, no matter how sapped we are in this spinning world.”

Trying to break free from this mindset is hard when you are the roots. We make up the ground where idealism flourishes—we, also our predecessors, their generations, and their faults for nourishing this notion.

It sustains the test of time indefinitely. Shuffle like her and you’ll collapse, unknowingly becoming a fool for being a follower. Don’t get too caught up in the hypnotic drug she expels: we don’t live in the reality she exists in. Who are we to her?

Metaphorically, we live to be a rare diamond: unique and exclusive.

Realistically, we follow the leader.

They’re a girl’s dream dancing recklessly on fragile territory, and their luxurious statement has turned into a screaming match. Selecting art to imitate is harrowing; however, life imitates art in mystifying ways and cannot be replicated no matter our valor, no matter how sapped we are in this spinning world.

No matter how robust or how lacking the roots we fortuitously nourish are, we’ve always been invited to follow the gems we see down a synthetic hole. Gemstones like her are the glory we’ve been fighting for; we restyle ourselves to imitate art: our treat.

Once we’re as sumptuous as her, or even a taste in an artificial loop, it’s too late to retreat.

She slaughters individuality once we’ve handed too much over, our only characteristic we seek to be freed and just as beautiful.

Forever will it be unachievable, but the fight has ended and a vestige of our souls is still meager.

One last drop of her potency for the trip back, but we’ll never make it out the same.