I honestly have no idea what to call this.

So I’ve had a busy time of it recently, hence why I haven’t been posting stories as much as I would like to, not even my older ones but I have just been brainstorming a few ideas for which of my stories I have written that I want to bring together for a collection. Added to that I went to a friend’s gig/after party in London and despite having a really good time of it I have decided I’ve had enough of the industrial music scene. I’ll still listen to the music and I’m keeping my Mohawk but I just don’t want to deal with the people involved with it anymore, who knew such a fringe group of people could be such self-important dickheads? Not to mention the heavy drinking and drug usage has run its course with me. Used to be a time when people were cutting MDMA on a CD case and I would have done a line and licked the case clean, last weekend I didn’t even want any. There are a few friends I’ll keep but I doubt anyone will notice my absence really. That sounds really mellow dramatic but hey, moving on always does. Anyway here’s a short piece I wrote about the topic in the spur of the moment, hopefully I post better stuff in the soon.

P.S after reading this back through to myself I realise it might sound a bit like some desperate cry for help but that is far from the intent, just something I did to let some feelings out.

 

The lights dance around the dark club, their rainbow coloured beams illuminating the figures writhing on the dance floor for brief seconds at a time before plunging them again into darkness. You sit at a booth alone, or at least you feel alone, the shadowy figures seem to hardly notice you are there despite the fact they chose to come sit with you. the light passes over them for a second and you hardly recognise the faces anymore. One of them looks at you and gives you a quick smile which you haven’t the heart to return. You stand and move around the table, the man sat next to you hardly bothers to give you the space to leave.

Your legs ache, and no normal ache, they aren’t just tired, they feel old. Your bones feel rigid and moving sends spikes of pain through your shins. You can’t say if it was the dancing, the boots or what that causes the pain but every time you come here the pain is a little more vivid. The table next to you seats some old friends now alien to you, they bend low over the table, one at a time and inhale a large mountain of powder. In the dancing lights the snow pile glows pink, then red, then yellow, green blue orange. The figures smile invitingly and you feel yourself moving to join them, one line and your head will be filled with all the pretty colours that the powder promises, the pain will be gone and for another night you can love this place, the same place you have spent the last six years. But you hold yourself back, you know if you give in now you may never leave this place, you’ll be here until it kills you. You move through the dance floor towards the door, the bodies around you twist and turn wrapping briefly around you before backing away as you move through them. they are somehow all out of time with each other and yet somehow still all in time with the thunderous music that shakes the foundations and as your boots strike the floor you feel the old desire to join the dance. But again you don’t.

As you pass you see the people’s faces, they look down on you from their platform boots, masquerade smiles hiding contemptuous sneers. You have never been good at hiding your own contempt and as you walk you draw yourself up, towering above their artificially enhanced height from which they intended to look down on you until they are no higher than the tiles they dance on. You mount the stairs and look out one of the open doors. Out there somewhere is the person you followed in here, the reason you spent so long in this place and the reason you fell in love with it. But she left long ago and no matter whether you leave or stay she is long gone. You look back over the crowded floor once more. The bodies swaying like vibrant waves glowing in the sea, each person shining brighter as a coloured light strikes their corresponding illuminous clothing, fake dreads, braids, arm covers, corsets. Everyone colour coded with one colour to offset the black of the rest of their outfits. You smile to yourself that you never got that far into the scene. As you turn to leave your hand finds a bottle by the door. And an examination of the label reveals the familiar stag head logo that has kept you company through the years. You keep hold of it, no use dropping everything at once. Finally you step out the door and into the rest of the world. It is no brighter here, just different. Maybe you can learn to like different.

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