Drive Wheel

This is heaven, she thinks. Flashing lights. Bass pounding in her chest. Several hundred writhing bodies all moving to the beat. Sweat pouring off of her body. Hips moving. Arms flailing. Booty shaking. Everyone cheering in pauses of the relentless rhythm. Who needs the gym when this the only cardio vascular activity you will ever need? This is vital. This is living. This is all there is.

Time loses meaning here. Who cares how she got here? This is where she is. And if you are happy with where you are at any moment, you can’t regret any decision that put you there. It’s the wrong turns that take you to unexpected places. She had always lived for the moment. The moment that seems to last an eternity. Like Sartre’s idea of the perfect moment. Like now.

Worshipping at the church of sound. That’s what someone called it once. And she had bourne witness to the beat all over the world, on every continent, even a party boat off the coast of Antarctica. Now the bright lights have led her here. To the apotheosis of rave culture. Ibiza has nothing on this place. She loves it here. She could stay here forever.

I hate it here. Why am I here? I hate clubs. Clubs are the crystalisation of everything I despise. Enclosed spaces. Bright lights. Noise. Sweaty herberts. Other people’s music. Other people. Not to mention dancing. The sight of people dancing makes my genitalia retreat inside my body. Someone asked me why I wasn’t dancing. Self-awareness, I replied. Dignity. Basic self-control. Take your pick. No-one looks good dancing.

Why am I here? It can’t have been my choice. Too much to drink perhaps. I don’t remember drinking anything, but the aftertaste of lukewarm lager from the half empty plastic pint glass on the sticky table in front of me seems to contradict that memory. Did someone drop something in my drink and drag me here? Don’t remember being in the pub. Last thing I remember, I was driving. Undipped headlights on the road ahead of me. Then nothing. Then here.

So many regrets. So many wrong choices. So many wrong turns. So busy closing myself off to new opportunities; new experiences. And for what? To end up here, sat alone in the worst place I can imagine, while people enjoy their lives all around me. This is sadistic. This is torture. This is hell.

 This is heaven, this is hell.
This is living, this is tale to tell.
This is drive wheel, this is cog.
This is master, this is snarling dog. 

Chumbawamba, Bad Dog, Good Girl