NIKE -Blue Lock-

Fame di fama

Disclaimer: I don't like this but hell it's been too long and I have to put a stop to the writer's block

Fame di fama
= hunger for fame

The taste of fame is exquisite, isn't it?

So exquisite that, at first, when you're starving for it, you simply can't resist.

It's like a parched throat sampling its first glass of wine- impossible to stop at just one.
You take a second, a third, a fourth, and then more.

Again and again, deluded by the thought that you can handle it, that you can endure it all without consequence.

But the truth is, the morning after, when you've had far too much, you loathe the wine. Because for those who have never tasted it before, those unaccustomed to its daily intoxication, it becomes unbearable.

And so it is with fame.

Yes, fame is so damned good, so damned flavorful, so damned addictive, so damned sweet...

...but only when you are starving.

Like a candy you can't stop devouring, piece after piece, one after the other.

And only those who've never tasted fame hunger for it.
I could name so many of them, if only they were important enough to have names worth remembering.

For those who truly know fame, those who consume it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it is revoltingly sweet.
So sickeningly sweet, it's almost as if it breeds a kind of diabetes—a sickness of fame.

And fame, once it makes you sick, becomes a malignant roommate. If you wish to live with it, you must dissociate.

Alienate yourself.

You must convince yourself that the disgustingly sweet taste is the only flavor your palate has ever known. You must lie to yourself until you are absolutely certain that salty, bitter, sharp, or bland tastes—none of these exist, nor could they ever exist.

Now, for instance, engulfed in this chaotic white that seems to wrap around us, threatening to make us disappear, it's easy for someone as sick as I am to recognize who is still sane.

For you, tasting this for the first time, it's all so disorienting. For a moment, you think you're trapped in your own mind, alone with yourself, lost in the unfillable void of your thoughts.

Flash after flash, shutter after shutter, the lights blind you, stripping you of your vision- a sense you're only now beginning to truly appreciate.

Click after click, every snap of the photographers feels like a blow to your senses.

Your eyes, as if in rebellion, struggle to hold onto the faint clarity that still lingers. Pupils and irises strain, wavering between contraction and surrender, desperate to shape the chaos around you, while your gaze, unmoored, darts right, then left, then right again, searching for something—anything—to anchor to.

Every movement is a failed attempt at stability, a blind flinch in the futile effort to reorder the disarray around you.

And there you are, frozen, stunned, staring into the blinding white.
Panic sets in.
You don't yet realize that you should, in fact, be calm, pretending that this creeping sense of confusion is nothing more than the dull void of boredom.

You just have to keep looking.
What do you see?
You don't know.
But you're not meant to see—you're meant to look.

Then, an unknown hand brushes your shoulder. For that fleeting nanosecond, you cling to that single point of contact, realizing that no, you are not locked in a pristine, asylum-like white room.