My
hair is fashionably tousled, my jeans a perfect fit. I've put on some cologne
which I know would evaporate as soon as I walk into the club. I wait for
my friends, and once together, talk about how wasted we want to become, how
utterly out of our minds we should be before the end of the evening.
A
couple of shots before going in. For courage. And because the alcohol
they sell is too damn expensive.
I
enter through double doors into a dark, cramped room throbbing with loud,
unrecognizable music, and a barrage of people jumping to the beat. The room is
warm, and I feel a bead of sweat slowly trace itself down the side of my neck.
I smile briefly before the crowd, until the many-headed creature swallows
me whole and transforms me into another one of its many heads bopping to
the rhythm of one song.
Sometimes
it comes naturally, the ability to dance. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes
I stand in the middle of the room, a drink in my hand, while I am pushed around
by strangers. I hesitantly mimic the tap-tap-tapping of the group beside me. Or
the stiff, but captivating swaying of the confident young man on stage.
Sometimes I completely let go, and dance like a wild animal, eyes closed,
my mind imagining the room as empty except for me and the beat.
Then
there is that magical moment, when, drunk and exhausted, I stare at the ceiling
and feel (not think!) that all is right with the world. And the feeling expands
and rises and mingles like smoke with the music and the people through the
wild, unplanned dance the crowd is participating in.
