I’m not a risk-taker. I’m not an adrenaline junkie. But I can tell you with certainty that most all of the supremely stupid things that I have done have happened at concerts.
I wish I could explain exactly why this is. Is it just that I find the music so invigorating that my inhibitions go out the window? Is it that I wanted to be more impressive there than anywhere else? Is it all the fond memories I have of being a kid at concerts and having older folks look out for me? I may never know.
It’s not that I turn into somebody else once loud music gets going. It’s like some part of me is freed, the meekness and hesitancy evaporating. I have gotten hurt and will likely get hurt again. And yet, I’ll keep going, letting some weird and sheltered part of me run loose.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) from Ancient Greek διθύραμβος, a type of hymn sung in praise of Dionysus
Passionate, particularly referring to intoxicated or erratic enthusiasm.
There’s a hum to holy spaces. It might come from all the warm wood, the polished gold, the tile floors; they make a place feel important.
But all that polish never did it for her. Nor did the whispers. Instead, she finds herself when lost in a crowd, nose wrinkled from the smell of stale beer and cheap weed. The bass thrums, more felt than heard. She screams, because everybody else is screaming, because it feels good to scream.
She likes the anonymity, but more the feeling of being nothing but herself, lost in rhythm and sound and pure exhilaration.