He sings softly at first. His lips barely graze the microphone as he cups his hands around it, his voice somewhere between a melody and a whisper. He’s damp with sweat—face shining, red ascot loose on his neck, white blouse and black skirt clinging to his skin. The guitarist behind him picks swiftly at a single string like a fluttering heartbeat. Recognition hits us like a cannon shot. The crowd explodes with cheers, their hundreds of hoots and cries briefly drowning out the music. The singer runs a hand through his long dark hair, shaking like a man gone mad as he utters his lyrics. We all feel the rush, a cocktail of dopamine, adrenaline and cortisol setting fire to our veins. The sound drives into our chests, wrapping its white hot fingers around our hearts, gripping our souls.
The rest of the band kicks in, shattering the air with a blast of guitar and drums and rattling my bones. The buzz travels up from the ground, enveloping my entire body and compelling me into the mosh pit. I lose myself in the rabid frenzy, so exhilarated that I can’t pull air into my lungs. When the song slows, I jump out into the crowd and try to catch a glimpse of the stage. A group I never thought I’d see, together again after twelve years. To my generation, the news of their return felt like a divine miracle.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
I jump back in when the second verse hits. A larger man’s elbow collides with my jaw, and for a moment, I see a galaxy. It simmers into sparks, then melts into the flashing of strobe lights on the stage. Another blow snaps me back to reality, and I shove him in kind, ready for more. I weather blow after blow, taking more hits than I give. I want it this way. It's empowering. Every day I wake up with raw nerves and creaky bones, feeling like I’ve been marinated in acid and wondering when I’ll finally escape this mortal husk. In my darkest moments, I find myself wishing I could tell my parents how much I hate them for bringing me into this world. Right now, it already hurts—it always hurts—and I know jumping in a mosh pit will make it worse. And yet, I have to. The bruises I gain here are not like my fibromyalgia. They inflict a kind of pain that I welcome with open arms. Pain which I was given the chance to consent to.
When the song ends, my blood is hot with adrenaline, and I stand at the edge of the pit catching my breath. A cooling wave of euphoria washes over me, sinking beneath my skin and cleansing me down to my marrow. I feel more alive, more present than ever before. For a single moment, the sorrows of the past and the uncertainty of the future faded into nothingness. I existed only in that instant, a tiny dot on the endless expanse of space and time.