“Excessive Consciousness is a Disease”– Dostoevsky

To re-create that which is infused with melancholy and charm in a sparsely populated brewery room ravaged by the years of small town living and the recent pandemic would be tricky indeed.

Vulnerable chords and gloomy laughter, peaceful sessions of music. The room is lit, not dimly, but not happily. Here it is still natural, still easy to live, and there is no extra mental strain trying to figure out if certain women are actually men.

What a mysterious circumstance of two men in their twenties playing their hearts out to twelve people, one of whom was transfixed enough to stop this sentence and listen until the spell was broken. There was no spell for most, phones became us and I can’t write and I am dredging an arrogant something out of nothing. This sucks. I’ll probably publish it out of spite. Unlike those in this room. Why am I still writing right now. Probably because only I know the absurdity contained within me. Damn, they are playing Folsom Prison Blues now and it’s damn good. But it’s only recorded in this subpar rambling never-ending paragraph. And it’s too late to rescue this because my consciousness took over the wheel about two sentences in. This ends 

Published by Principium24

I want to write, as millions have before me. And I want to know what it is to be human, as few have before me.

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