The Small Rooms
Each their own world unto themselves, lonely, despite the crowd.
I live in a town of small rooms, where art is fragmented into these places carved out by those who had bigger dreams once but have found themselves if not content at least resigned to the idea that this. Is it.
They’re the kind of rooms where people are often neither on the way up, or down, but moving along the strata, calcified in place by circumstance, commitment, and a lack of raw talent.
Cheered on by the rest who never dabbled in the arena, toes dry as they watch life flow by, telling themselves that tapping their toes along to middling versions of songs that never made it past the middle of the charts constitutes happiness, joy.