Blasted

I'd never been to a concert until today. I'd asked. My parents, with their cautionary fingers, warned so long ago, "You don't WANT to go to a concert. It will be so loud you won't be able to tell where the stage is and where the door is. You'll be trapped, without identity, in a world of left and right and drums and guitars. You won't be able to hear the words." They were right about the last bit. They were right about everything. But it was a pleasant pandemonium. I loved the way we all laughed when they checked the mic. We sat down when our feet hurt from stomping and our thumbs from snapping and our palms from clapping - perfect. Yes, they were right, I didn't know who I was, but I was sure who everyone around me was. I could tell you all their names, but then you'd live in the moment, halfway there without fully understanding the chaos of hearing a million songs you've never heard and not knowing when you're supposed to scream. Let it suffice to say that there were six of us (plus two alone in an aisle below) and we shouted until we couldn't breathe.