There’s nothing I love more than stepping out of the crisp autumn air into a cramped, humid room illuminated by a disco ball and the glowing butts of people’s cigarettes. Or I guess that’s what you could gather about me if you had seen me tonight, flailing my arms and legs about in The Warehouse,
jamming to a band comprised of people that I pass every morning on my way to chapel. After singing along with all my heart to every kind of song, ranging from hits by Rihanna to the Gin Blossoms, I walked back into the cold night with my friends, the sweat drying on my back and smile on my face.
I wonder sometimes if there’s some type of invisible age-limit on how long I will be able to go someplace like that and just completely lose my mind without having to worry about it the next day. Is it 22? 24? When am I going to have to retire to the back of the room, keeping my arms crossed, enjoying the concert vicariously through the idiots in the front? Ah well, I guess it doesn’t really matter, anyhow.
And, in honor of this new blog of mine, I petition you with these words, written by the great Thomas Jefferson (“T.J.”) himself:
“Write to me often. Write affectionately, and freely, as I do to you. Say many kind things, and say them without reserve. They will be food for my soul.”
-Brooklynne
