The Minimalist Club - a short story.

Once upon a time, in the throbbing heart of the city, there was a quaint little corner of mediocrity known as "The Minimalist Club."

Every Tuesday night, a crowd of perfectly average individuals, dressed up as beacons of balance and restraint, gathered to discuss the fine art of owning less. In reality, this was a congregation of sobriety junkies who pretended to minimize their lives while living in a world brimming with consumerism. No one had the guts to admit that their true obsession was the cult of emptiness, but it was an open secret they all shared.

Tim, the club's founder, was the poster child of the modern vanity preacher, convinced that possessing less was the secret to a better life. He sported faded jeans and a t-shirt that read, "Consumerism? No thanks," which was more of a declaration of failure than a fashion statement. Tim had that nervous smile so beloved by vegans and minimalists alike, as if he were perpetually trying to convince himself how wonderful it was to live in abject insignificance.

Then there was Sarah, the quintessential yoga instructor who spoke in a guru-like tone while peering through her reflective sunglasses. She was the queen of motivational quotes and tofu-based meals, her daily mantra a celebration of self-imposed isolation. Her temple was a yoga corner in her apartment, and her lifestyle was a mix of zen platitudes and obsessive paranoia.

The truth was, their cult was nothing more than a convenient disguise for hiding their inner decay behind a facade of impeccably organized lives. With each meeting, they convinced themselves of their purity, while deep down, they wondered if their ostentatious simplicity was just a sleek way to avoid human contact.

Meanwhile, as Tim and Sarah exchanged sarcastic remarks about how liberating it was to eliminate every form of human connection, the outside world kept on spinning, indifferent to their little revolution. Society was a machine churning out consumers with the optimism of a fast-food assembly line, and they were the mascots of a movement that would never actually start.

So the Minimalist Club members continued to brand themselves as “free” while locking themselves in a cage of pretension and self-pity. They were the new pioneers of superficiality, champions of a revolution that would never gain traction. And as the world continued to turn and laugh at their efforts, they remained in their tiny corner, convinced that the true luxury was living without anything, blissfully unaware they were merely swapping one form of bondage for another—more insidious and less visible.