How To Accept False Idolism

projectilecomet

[UNPOSTED, BUT YOU'RE VERY SPECIAL AND A CHOSEN ONE IF YOU'RE ON THIS PAGE... SO YOU GET MY DRAFTS EARLY. WRITING AND TAGS ARE SUBJECT TO CHANGE.]

Chapter 1

You were spaced out, staring into the detail of what would become the final artwork for the album.

You had tried to suggest some other concepts, like floral stores or magnets. But alas, this is a democracy, and everyone else supported Andrew's idea of bringing back the Mothership.

It doesn't matter all that much. The lead newbie had a few ideas for a first album theme, building off what he saw you had, including his own interpretation and personal writing taste. After your realization that there wasn't much left to do that could change how it was going, you played dumb and followed along with whatever they did, to steer away from possible fights or suspicion in general.

Now the whole thing's been finalized, and it's too late to cry about how everything about it is wrong, or convince them to change one more little thing. Or to convince them to give it up, to do anything else instead of the topic that would be a constant fucking reminder of how stupid and meaningless your life is.

Unlike what the two of you had, where you both probably drove Mattias insane with the plethora of revision requests to create the most accurate illustration*, this artwork was received with hardly any requests for change. The artwork's scattered, minuscule Motherships didn't just have the job of making sure you didn't forget that some things are no longer part of your life, but also, especially, that some experiences are no longer yours (& his) to explore, to process, to love.

As you continue staring down at the album cover, the thoughts you hid from the world come back louder than it's ever been. This is blasphemy, bastardization, throwing dirt at the divine by creating an inaccurate fictionalization of the settlement base of the ships, a space so exalted him and you must have only been close to it once with how you could barely recall how it could have been like.

The more you let reality marinate, the larger your guilt feels. As the only remaining bandmate to be able to upkeep the honour of what the two of you brought to the music, you failed your morality. For a minute you bring your hand to your forehead, just barely combing through your unkempt hair. Sick of your dwelling, you shake your head, in a matter similar to a canine drying off. It'll be fine. Having finally turned from the album, you walk away. Distrait, you wander off for a snack. It'll be fine.