Idols are made of…
Of plastic smiles. Of never-ending beam, of polite pleasantries exchanged even though you’ve fed up of them already. Of shouting the same introduction for the nth time, or smiling upon obnoxious screams.
Of painstaking routines and van-hopping. Sailing through seas of humans trying to reach out and touch. Of being dug out of private zone, leaving nearly nothing to cover up. Of pretending you’re okay when what you really want to do is heading home, curling inside the blankets and hibernate for the entire century. Of taking painkillers regularly until it becomes a habit, of ignoring pleading pain on the joints. Skipping meals, eating takeout foods, relying on garbage fast foods. Of suppressing the numbing sensation of boredom, trying to ignore them all.
Of their wills to shine, and the rays of hope given by the fans.