The Gig

The sound goes off, the band starts to play, the drumbeat calls. I drift to the stage and stretch my arms over the railing: a sloppy grin steals in, creasing my gritty face. Jostled now, as the tension starts to rise. My mind elevates, my senses fire, my body goes wild, dirty leather flopping. Beads of sweat rush down my face, purging negativity, taming my inflamed nerves.

Behind me the circle pit rages. I keep one eye behind me, one eye on the stage, and my ears are tuned. Lightheaded now, but I push fatigue aside, demanding adrenaline, pushing myself as I've always done, pushing myself to a higher plane that knows no pain.

The night streaks by; the songs blend together. My voice grows hoarse as I scream along, sour breath settling in, and pump my fists in the air. We're all here for the same reasons; we sense it mid-show, gazing sidelong at each other while the communal mood awakens, siblings of the street.