It begins slowly.

Just an ethereal sound like the quiet hum of raw piety, a low breeze passing through a celestial organ of silver pipes pointing towards God. The throb… you feel it in that little hollow under your throat. It grows inside you, a benevolent warm cancer swelling around your chest, prickling your skin. Under the membrane it seeps, leaking to your fingertips and over your ribs, through the sacred passage between your hips and down your legs.

Then the drums kick in, and all your molecules become nonsense. The order of the Universe swarms into distended chaos. Your feet melt into the ground, your fingertips stretch up to run through the clouds, as cool as a draped wrist into a winter stream. You feel invincible.

I stood a little way behind her as she raised a pair of skinny fists to heaven and her eyes burned from blue to yellow. Arms aloft she watched the lights as they bounced and flickered, pulsing like a newborn heart, as the mass throng before her rocked and swayed heavily in unison. In that moment she felt the Earth tilt and buck like a tiny ship caught in rough seas, riding the huge waves by virtue of its insignificance. The drums, the bass, the seething fire of the music blasted through her, hollowing out her insides and filling the void with molten gold.

She let out a scream; not of fear or pain but of emotion bursting like a balloon filled with petrol over a candle. Just as before the moment of death, a thousand snapshots of her life passed through her mind as though on a Zoetrope; hundreds of frustrations and hundreds more smiles, litres of tears and hours of galloping laughter. All the sex and carnage of her ridiculous twenties, those paralyzingly insecure teens, the forgotten tens and those dreary pragmatic thirties. You can’t destroy history, there is no factory reset; only reshaping what we knew into what we should know. The melted archaic statue reformed into an icon.

I see her shoulders begin to sag and her knees buckle. I walk up behind her, remove the headphones from her ears and let her get a breath. I ask her if she enjoyed that, wrapping my arms around her waist. She loops an arm around my neck, resting my chin on her shoulder, panting into my eyelashes.

You motherfucker, she smiles, just.

I decided this morning that I loved this woman. So I brought her here, to a hillside overlooking a field of corn rippling in a fresh summer breeze, so she could stare down and pretend to be in a crowd of thousands. I stood her in front of this amber God, hazy in a steamy afternoon, with the volume turned up to eleven. No chemicals, no stimulants, no depressants, no cloudy yellow bottles of headache inducing percentages and units… just music, and nature, and a few simple words…

here… listen to this… it will change your world.

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

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