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I Loved The Way They Danced

Writing by Sarah Rowe // photograph by Liana Frappa

Writing by Sarah Rowe // photograph by Liana Frappa

I loved the way they danced

They were free, uninhibited

There was no refinement, not even the slightest

No whisper of rehearsal or preconception

It was animalistic, something wild, untamed instinct

You could see the music crawling under his skin like bugs

Streaming through his blood, igniting his bones. His body writhed, shook and pulsed

I wanted to feel it too

I wanted to bottle up the sound, with the thumping bass and screaming guitar and the searing voice; their voice

I wanted to grab it, boil it, reduce it to liquid

I would drink it

It would make me feel alive

and help me escape the other noise

The one in my head that I can’t escape, not without the aid of numbing agent

A cigarette, a vodka soda (or 5), a cheerful but banal movie I’d seen before

They made the voices fuzzy

But I didn’t want fuzz, or static, or crackling

I craved sharpness, clarity, life

And I’d found it

On an otherwise unexceptional Thursday night

In a crowded room

Surrounded by sweaty strangers, all worshipping the same God, even if just for the night

The darkness cut with beaming laser lights

Sarah Rowe

Sarah is a sociology graduate living and studying in Melbourne. She is fascinated by issues of sexuality, gender and psychology. Her current aspirations include completing her Masters of Social Work, owning a cat and finishing Fleabag.

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