The music is thudding. Deep, lustrous beats entwined with melodic tinkles, like the noise fairies would make while tiptoeing on water droplets in the garden. And these fairies come to life this night. The reality is formed through tutus spinning, the material brushing against sparkling skin. The bare-midriffs; curves swaying in a bubble of electricity, created and reinforced by the music, the atmosphere lifting you away from the world. Everything is glistening. Everything is shining.
The lights are vibrant. Multi-coloured spots, shapes, sizes, are circling the walls, encasing the dancers in a magic glow. The wall of fire reflected in the eyes of every child, the wonderment of something so powerful, so beautiful. The purple: glowing softly, welcoming. Nothing here is threatening. Everyone is together, everyone is having fun, everyone is alive with light. It’s like a secret club, something special, and in the slight catch of a stranger’s eye, a smile, this is acknowledged and shared generously between those there.
And the man sitting at the head of the room, his hat obscuring his face, he is not a DJ, but a celebrated God, conjuring his spells, his mystic dust he sprinkles over us through the music. The favourites. The ones we go crazy for and jump and scream and hold our hands up to the sky for; we can’t get high enough. We can’t dance hard enough, fast enough, dissolving into one, into the music, the lights, the heat of bodies around us. We worship him, and he, using his magic intuition, doesn’t need to look at us to know we are celebrating. We are his minions and we will dance until we drop. A paradise created, with each person stretching and clamouring to make it last. An eternal party we crave.
And the light sticks, glowing with a life of their own. Vibrating and pulsating with the same desire as the dancers. They are like beacons. A constant feature and a recognizable symbol of fun and friendships; of the night of laughter. If there is a heaven, I dance in it every month.