As consciousness assumes itself there appears to be a sense of anxiousness and activity in the warm parts of an under-lit taproom. Yellow smoke permeates the atmosphere, rubbing its back upon the windows panes. It is in these places that faces congregate for discussions of various types. Words are spoken, mostly with the sole intention of captivating an imagination, or perhaps better yet, as a formality for certain things which are yet to come. Plastic laughter, synthetic smiles, all in the name of buying time enough for the chemicals to settle in and dilute the phony barrier. Even the barrier is fake, for both sides know the drill.

Arms wrapped around necks, hands unwrapping arms, fingers laid on shoulders, lips laid on lips, jaws working furiously so as to ensnare, like ragged claws. Gatherings such as this are meant to satisfy physical needs. “Let us take the air in a tobacco trance.”

There is a feeling which builds, struggles, begging to break the barriers which hold it; barriers which we are instilled with. They protect, and deceive. They hurt. We wish they could stop feeling sorry for myself. The defect of this source of outlet is that one cannot commit the most painful and difficult tests for fear of exposure and attaining the pity or frustrations of others. He wouldn’t want for such things to occur. On the other hand, the black sheet of paper is the world’s best listener and worst reassure.

Some people seek to master their emotions and learn to control them so as to be able to turn them on or off, like a light bulb. I prefer to believe in the release and revelry of the chaotic things which go on inside me, rather than containment and eventual stifling. For me emotion, both good and bad, are incredible things. Painful, sweet, sad, exhilarating, beautiful. Yet I hate it when I pity myself. There is so much to comprehend.