You Love Someone Who Never Existed
Do you really know your idols or just the carefully constructed image of them? Perhaps idolatry says less about those on stage and much more about the emptiness, projections, and human need to belong. An invitation to reflect on why we dedicate such affection to those who perhaps never existed as we imagined.
The lights go out. A single spotlight pierces the smoke and finds the stage. Before the first note, someone in the front row is already in tears. Further back, a young man raises his arm displaying a tattoo with the artist's face. Thousands of cell phones illuminate the arena like small artificial stars. People traveled for days to be there. Some spent hours in lines. Others sacrificed part of their paycheck for a few minutes of proximity. When the performance ends, they return home convinced they lived one of the most important nights of their lives.
There is something extraordinary about this scene. Not because of the spectacle, but because of the direction of affection. Whoever stands before the stage knows the name of the singer's dog, remembers old interviews, identifies mood changes, follows relationships, celebrates victories, and suffers defeats as if they were personal. On the other side, however, there exists a stranger. The artist will never know that these people existed. The connection is intense, but runs in only one direction.
Psychology gave this a name back in the 1950s: parasocial relationship. A deep emotional bond built between someone and a public figure who has no idea of their existence. What's most curious is that this illusion was never a secret. It was studied, described, understood, and yet it continues to produce real effects.
Perhaps this happens because our brain belongs to a world that no longer exists. For almost all of human history, we lived in small groups where each familiar face represented a genuine exchange. Whoever was seen also saw. Whoever was known also knew. Trust emerged in this environment of reciprocity.
Then screens appeared. We began encountering daily people we would never actually meet. The brain registers that face repeatedly, learns its gestures, its voice, its expressions, and concludes that intimacy exists. Not because we were deceived, but because our instincts never needed to distinguish a present human being from an image repeated millions of times.
At this point an uncomfortable inversion emerges. Perhaps the idol isn't who we imagine. The admired figure is carefully constructed by teams of communicators, photographers, screenwriters, agents, algorithms, and market strategies. Each interview selects words. Each publication chooses angles. Each silence also communicates. The public believes they know someone when, in truth, they know only a refined narrative. Passion may not be directed at a person. It might be dedicated to a character carefully crafted to awaken exactly that feeling. If this is true, the inevitable question appears: who is, after all, the recipient of that devotion?
Perhaps the answer says less about them and much more about us. Idolatry seems to fill a silent space that few admit to having. There exists a deep need for belonging, inspiration, and meaning. We project onto another person the discipline we wish we had, the courage we feel we lack, the beauty we admire, the success we pursue, or the happiness we imagine exists. The idol transforms into a surface where we deposit idealized versions of ourselves. In times when ancient beliefs lost force for many, some celebrities began occupying a surprisingly similar place. They don't just offer entertainment. They offer direction, identity, and purpose.
Perhaps that's exactly why this experience awakens difficult questions to answer. Would idolatry just be a contemporary manifestation of a much older religious impulse? Does loving someone who will never reciprocate that feeling represent an imbalance or reveal a completely detached form of affection free from reward? And if this mechanism is present in all human relationships? Perhaps we never truly know anyone. Not the people we admire from a distance. Not those we encounter daily. Not even those who share the same house with us. Perhaps we coexist more with the versions we construct of others than with the individuals themselves.
At the end of the performance, the lights turn on. The artist disappears backstage without knowing you were there. The crowd disperses slowly while carrying memories that will last decades. Perhaps the most important person in that night never existed exactly as imagined. And perhaps that's exactly what makes everything so difficult to forget.
