Hangover
Body aching, head in pain
he swears to himself he’ll never drink again.
We all know this story, we’ve all felt the same,
but will it stop us?
No. Fucking. Way.
The Raver
Can you feel it? There’s a charge in the air, electricity of the soul. It permeates everything, from the hazy glow of the lights dangling from the drooping trees to the sounds of the music blasting through the summer night.
There is nothing like this. A hundred voices, one in the moment. This is what he lives for.
He walks into the clearing, serotonin burning a hole in his heart and in his brain, dopamine rushes through his veins, his heart and mind racing. Arms outstretched, catlike in his ecstasy, he pads forward and launches himself into the dance.
Only the music matters, the bass is his god now and the sound system is his temple. There is something tribal about the connection between people and music, an affinity for the beat of the drum that goes beyond conscious thought. He is in this state; he is one with the music. He is the beat and the beat is him as he travels on this cosmic voyage through his chemical consciousness.
There are other travellers too, floating about in this sea of souls. Brothers of experience, they share a state of mind and that is enough to pull them together. This feeling knows no race, no culture, no ages – there is no distinction. Under this feeling, we are all one. He loses himself in the music, dancing is his sacrament. Outward appearances are no matter, ego has been left behind long ago; there is no place for the self-centered here.
But then, as the saying goes, what goes up… must come-down. His brothers are no longer the interstellar companions they once were, the lights glow sickly pale unlike the blazing suns they used to be. Colour drains from the world like water down a plughole.
And, just like that, the feeling is gone.
Tomorrow he will sleep, rest and recover. The day after that he’ll return to his grey life, in grey suburbia with a grey car and a grey suit for his job in a grey building in a grey, concrete city. Soon, only memories of the feeling will remain. And next week?
Well next week, he’ll do it all again.
