Distortion
A concert hall is a place of communion
Hell is here, heaven is here
The vocalist raises his voice, a half tone higher while I try to fill the empty space between my ears.
I look towards the back row where the space stretches out to infinity, wondering just how far can the human voice reach without the help of speakers.
The performance picks up
A thousand bodies writhing with a fever, a thousand set of eyes transfixed at the stage.
I stand watching, transfixed at the band, watching them like truth, watching like everybody else is watching.
It almost feels wrong to watch, the painful wails of the guitar, the performer’s face contorting into a grotesque expression.
The voice of the crowd rises, goading the band into hurting themselves more and more.
A concert hall is a communion.
The modulation of the vocalist, is drowned in a sea of humans.
Hell is here.
A thousand voices ascending higher and higher, becoming a screaming chorus of distorted sounds
Inside me, a gurgling noise comes over.
White hot, rising from the pit of my stomach.
The best I can do is summon a muffled scream.
Here and there, everywhere I see are dancing bodies.
While I stand there, watching awkwardly.
Outside, the world caves in around me
While I stand there, transfixed, at nothing.
By the time I walk out the hall. I can barely hear my own voice
