BlakeColeman

I glance around through the thick nicotine stained air. The gyrating bodies pressed close in dances of lust and joyless movement are moving of their own accord. The eyes of the people around me are dead. Of all the people in the packed night club only about 10% of them appear to actually want to be there, the rest there because of some social obligation to rebel against the norm by joining the masses. The girl I came with gyrates along with the social convention and so do I. I am searching for the elation that is supposed to come with dancing to the stentorian music that is expelled from the speakers. I usually love to dance, letting go of my inhibitions and moving like a stoned epileptic robot in the comfort of my own house, but this brainless dance seems to be just that.

I make my way off the psychedelic dance floor towards the hopelessly overpriced bar with the rest of those who cannot survive the interlocked bodies. The ladies at the bar share the same dead in the eyes look that most of the club goers share. There are a number of people at a club one of the most irritating is that sober guy who was dragged there by his friends for a night out on the town but discovers too late that he is the designated driver destined to be sober for all eternity. I order another coke form the pretty girl working behind the bar. As I wait for my drink to arrive I glance around me careful not to meet the gaze of someone having a good time lest they reveal the dead look that I have become all too familiar with.