There were thousands of them, millions of them, perhaps a billion. And they were all attempting to make it. They were all hammering against the walls of reality, attempting to make their breakthrough that would propel them forth into a shining sphere of adoration. That was the approximation… That there were too many of them for them all to survive. Already, the great and noble had already held a lockdown on any sentiment that could be transcribed into the written vocabulary. So what? What happens after all the writers have been read and there simply is not enough room for another sentence, another word, to be read.

They all end up in the same place. In a hospital bed. Good or bad. Successful or not successful. I suppose it would be counted as a blessing. Ending up in a hospital bed rather than ending up on the streets. Beneath the downpour of rain or snow. Freezing to death. The mind melting away until all that is left is a vacuous darkness.

The fan realized this quicker than most. And so he contented himself with that fact and that fact alone. To simply be a fan. Whereas every other individual in the world churned out content that would not be read, could not be read, or something along those lines. And in that the fan was remarkable. There was only one fan left in the world. Everyone else had told themselves that they must create, that they must produce, that they must break forth and create an audience all to the rhythms of their inner most workings of the mind.

The fan read. The fan read and read. All he could do was read. Read the mountain of papers that had been stacked up a mile high. In this way the world of the written word, the world of all of the arts and crafts had been created just for him. Just for him or her, whoever the fan was. To simply sift through the great pile of art that had been created on a global basis. You had billions of these people. All attempts to create. All attempts to make something out of nothing. And then there was the fan. The reader. The viewer. The consumer.

It became a reversal of roles. Through the madness of celebrity status. Everything had tipped itself upside down and in upon one’s own head. There were many creators, many artists, billions of them. Everyone was an artist in their own way and they were all begging for attention. Begging for acceptance from the great, giant world that was.

This world had been created for the fan and all of the other artists would approach the fan. And the fan was a fan of many things. He or she would see this and would see that. They would grab a hold of some piece of writing and proclaim that it was the greatest thing that they had ever read. They would grab a hold of some picture and proclaim it was the greatest thing that they had ever seen. And the fan, the fan had the ultimate power. For in a world of fragile egos and low self-confidence, a single proclamation could make or break the creator.

The fan had the power of life and death. With a single opinion. Like blowing gas out of his arsehole, he could blow away artists of all kinds. This was the world that had been created through a dream of success and ambitions.

There were many artists churning away attempting to create something. But there was only one fan. One man or woman and their identity remained a mystery. And the fan was adored for everyone feared their wrath.

In a world where everyone creates, the single layman consumer holds ultimate power and sits atop the throne at the peak of power.


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