There’s a special kind of theatrical stupidity involved in crystal ball gazing, and humanity has embraced it for centuries like a drunk clinging to a lamppost — not for illumination, but for support.
The basic idea is simple: take a highly polished ball of quartz, or glass, or whatever’s cheapest at the local renaissance festival, stare into it until your eyes water, and then pretend the swirling fog you see is a vision of the future rather than the onset of a migraine.
And for this privilege, people have paid handsomely for generations.
There’s always some Madame Zelda or Mystic Moonbeam willing to sit behind a velvet-draped table, squint dramatically into a bowling ball on a stand, and declare that she sees a “tall, dark stranger” or “a great change on the horizon” — which, incidentally, covers everything from a promotion to food poisoning.
What kills me is that crystal balls aren’t even mystical by origin. They’re props. Good old-fashioned stagecraft dressed up in incense smoke and a lot of forehead furrowing.
If you stare into anything reflective long enough — a lake, a mirror, the gleaming forehead of an overzealous motivational speaker — you’ll start to see shapes, patterns, maybe even a full existential crisis if you’re lucky.
But we cling to the idea because it’s comforting. We want to believe there’s a portal out there, a glowing shortcut to the secrets of our messy little futures. And if all it costs is twenty bucks and your dignity, well, people line up in droves.
During one particularly dismal psychic fair I attended — in the back room of a strip mall between a vape shop and an abandoned Curves — I watched a woman in a sequined cape hold court over a battered glass sphere that looked like it had been rescued from a yard sale. Client after client leaned in with bated breath while she delivered a series of generic affirmations so broad they could have applied to the nearest potted plant.
“I see change coming.”
“I sense a time of uncertainty.”
“You’re at a crossroads.”
Of course you’re at a crossroads. You’re standing in a folding chair convention listening to a stranger free-associate into a glorified paperweight.
If you ask me, it’s clear as glass that ccrystal balls don’t reveal your destiny. They reveal your willingness to pay good money to be told what you already suspect: The future is terrifying, and nobody actually knows anything.
If you want real insight, skip the crystal ball and invest in a mirror. At least then you’ll know exactly who’s responsible for your situation.