Death is the final frontier — and while that is a fact — there are other ways that famous lives that have been silenced— can thrive in the openness of endorsed platforms.
When anyone with open accounts perishes — the history is ladened with the renderings of grief-stricken fans who can’t help but peruse the words left behind with the images that were captured just days before — the unthinkable occurred.
The way we process sudden loss is pretty much the same across the board. The fascination with the videos that depict the departed — living life with the authority of a promised tomorrow — is enhanced with the harbored knowledge of a telepathic nature.
We know what they will eventually discover weeks ago.
Back in the day — when notables left the planet — they did so with the announcement and the dignity of what was left behind. Whatever the legacy amassed — it was understood that we would have to make do with the memories of performances and the albums that detailed the scope of an existence that ends when the pages run out.
But times have changed — and with that comes advancements that can extend the fun past its due date — without the consent of the main players — who are in no position to bargain.
Twitter pages eventually fade away — as the eerie activity of strangers keep the functions stable — but it’s clear that the owner isn’t participating for a reason. Facebook also comes to a halt when the updates confirm the worst.
Instagram is a different beast, and that’s not necessarily a good thing. It’s actually pretty damn freaky.
If you’re inclined to search for your favorite celebrity crush — who happens to be deceased — go for it — and be amazed at the results. From Paul Walker to Aaliyah — there is no shortage of fan pages — erected by users who are rather good at choosing profile names that are easy to remember.
These are burgeoning shrines that showcase the past as if it were happening in real time — or even worse as if nothing has changed.
One of the most popular has to be Paul Walker of Fast and Furious fame — who perished in a tragic car crash at the age of forty — on November 30th, 2013 while on hiatus from filming the seventh installment of the insanely lucrative franchise.
Walker died just when Instagram was transforming into the field of dreams that has now sweltered the highly worshipped platform. The catch and thrill of Instagram — is how it bequeaths us with the power to make just about anything come true.
Your shitty days can reflect the complete opposite when you set your status to coordinate the images and captions on your behalf. You can convince yourself of whatever — and copy and paste with authority — while editing the post that secures your score of happiness.
You can make your favorite celebs the mascots of every week day — and the ticket to numbers that increase each time you prepare the proof of why social rules can dispute the reality of death — through the imagery of Stories that keep the blood of perception warm and viral.
The pages dedicated to the dead — make the living not fear death or the abruptness of such a disappearing act — because the pixels that line up to breed the vividness of a smile that still makes 2006 seem like just last night — are alway looking for new victims to victimize with hashtags, quotes, and mislabeled events that are distractingly enjoying the resurrection.
Instagram makes Paul Walker and others in his ride — seem like visitors from an imperial world who have found the secret to everlasting life. You just click on the subject and scroll through the appetizers of the day — that are silently digestible — through the maze of refurbished jargon.
The worker bees who are dedicated to keeping the invisible— visible — are paid in full by the attention and the reassurance that embalming those who deserve eternity can be a steady gig — if you want it.
I can see Aaliyah in different poses — around the people she chose — and with the spirit of mental provocation as her eyes challenges any glance that her future would be spent in wireless detention.
Paul Walker gets the attention that never left him. He’s frozen in an abyss that services anyone that dares to indulge. The franchise is now a hollow erection in his honor — and fans that still love him are garnering serious attention through the wizardly updates that make “#TBT” a recycled habit that can’t be replaced with proof of expiration.
Dead famous people are now subjected to the actuality of a revival at their own expense. They will be shelved for the prying nature of gawkers who tack on “hearts” of approval in response to how well the relics have held up — under the duress of the sleepless web.
It’s a trippy world with no special effects or the blurriness of time travel. Everything is protected under the clause of make-believe and the transparency of deceit — each time the smile from long ago is re-outlined.
We click to live.