What madness drives men to crown a stock a “rock star”? Is it the feverish delusion that numbers can transcend mortality, that charts might sing anthems of eternity? Celsius, that poor soul with a typo in its destiny-Rock Star, then Rockstar-soared on wings of hubris, a gilded Icarus parading in theNASDAQ’s sun. The market, that fickle crowd, clapped as it always does: for the spectacle, not the sense. “Growth at any price!” they chanted, as if the word “price” were but a suggestion, a peskycrusade to be ignored. And when the music stopped? When the ledger’s arithmetic, cold and unyielding, reminded them all that gravity is indifferent to dreams? The collapse was not a fall, but a surrender-a weary admission that the rockstar was never a god, only a man in glitter, gasping for oxygen beneath the weight of his own hype.
Men will always chase the siren song of irrational exuberance. They will always believe the next crescendo will save them. But the market, like the sea, cares nothing for your symphony. It drowns you in its tides, then forgets you ever sang. 🎸
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2025-08-29 18:49