Guitar strings poured noted waterfalls over the crowd. Our hands up, up, palms open, letting the notes wash over us. The saxophone sang. The drum echoed my heart - with beat, beat, beat, beat- I am alive. I am alive. Lyrical perfection, my story, our story goes unnoticed; the worn map directing this music. This jam. This experience.
The sweat rolled, dripped, streamed, soaked. Both my hands in the air moving opposite my shoulders, hips, sway, sway, swoosh, and feet tap, tap, swivel, tap, swivel, swivel. Eyes closed, because this is mine. This moment is mine, alone in a crowd of thousands, and I can't see past the glowing red LIFE alive and vibrant under my eyelids. I'm watching pain, fear, disappointment slide down my body next to the beads of sweat sliding, sliding, pooling, pooling at my feet. Cool blues and greens falling way to gravity. Lightness rising, filling, exhale and inhale. I might be that yellow balloon floating, floating, floating away. I've left it all on the ground there beside my feet. Now a transparent, gray, grime, puddle.
I didn't give it a second look when I stepped over it to walk out of the venue. I knew it held every. single. difficult. moment. of the past year. I have memorized the intersection of my bedroom wall and ceiling, shadowed in the one a.m. light of insomnia. I know the feeling of the hard wood floor after sitting on it for hours, just looking at each other. Puffy, swollen cheeks that come after things fall apart without a promise of falling together even better. I didn't need to see any of it again to know I would still remember it. Honor it. So I left it there. I left this past year in a puddle of sweat and tears on the concrete floor. I walked away lighter. I walked away a new person. And I haven't looked back since.
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