Going to town

To sweat, to dance, to live.

In the line for the dance club, we writhed with serpentine energy around the corners, slowly, quickly, until at last we were in.  There was sweat everywhere; the cold water bottle in my hands, the neck of a tattooed man, the brow of a friend–the very air dripped.

We were in Town, and the town was in us.

It was not until I paused briefly in a closed room on the second floor that I realized that the manic energy of the dance floor had gripped me with full force.  In that cool windowed room, staffed with couches and languorous bodies pausing for an eternal moment, the world stopped in between beats of music.

Exiting the room required conscious decision, the opening of doors, and goals—be it to enter the music again or go to the restroom.  Enter the music I did, looking for my compatriots, my friends, familiar faces in a clean sewer of flowing bodies.

Found, lost, and found again I allowed myself to drown in the beat, heat, and beat of the music.  It pressed against me and danced away, both flirting and repelling, forked tongue and angel’s touch to my whirling senses.  Stepped-on toes and brushes with backs, breasts, hinds, and arms were the currency of the floor, lubricated with sweat and sound, fortified with alcohol and drugs, the dance economy was in full swing.

Shuffles and swings were bid upon and partnerships made and lost in the blink of an eye.  The flickering of the television screens throbbed while we were robbed senseless of our sanity only to be returned to earth in the next moment with a crash of bass.

The restroom was another brief respite from movement, the only remnant was my foot unconsciously tapping as I stood at the stall.  In that small space, in the middle of a large building, in its heart, I was drunk and sober, hungry and full, poised on the precipice between alive and dead.  A choice had to be made, and unmade; I chose to die and through that, live.