• Josh Joseph

An Absent Mind Eats Itself

From the balcony of Boston’s Symphony Hall, lights attempt to direct me towards the pounding Bernstein melody unfurling onstage. Instead, I’m imagining what would happen if I swung from the light fixture, or broke each of the tiny yellow bulbs on the chandelier, one by one.

The timpani guy is bouncing around like a toddler.

I’ve never seen a tuba mute before.

An old man nearby inhales mucous with each breath. I’m hyper-aware, but at the same time I’m gone. I’m not at the symphony as much as I’m letting my mind out of its cage for an ill-advised romp. My eyes close. I insist I’m listening and fervently tap my foot to the beat, but all I hear is the static of my surroundings.

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