The Mosh Pit in the Forest
I park my car at the side of the road and check my face in the mirror. Carefully apply a red lipstick on my thin lips and fluff up my hair. I still see the suburban in my reflection.
I get out and furtively check to see if anyone is around.
There’s nobody. Dusk is on its way out, sucking all the color out of the sky. The air is heavy with humidity, like an invisible film under the sky, barely able to hold back a flood of rain.
I walk into the woods. I know where I’m going and I’m barely able to slow down enough to not tumble over the roots.
The deeper I walk into the woods, the darker the night gets. The branches brush against my face like a whisper of a ghost. The thorns on the shrubs scratch my arms until I bleed. I barely notice. I continue walking like I’m possessed until I reach a clearing.
There in the middle of the clearing is a concert sound system, the giant speakers glowing darkly under the moonlight.
I walk towards it slowly and press a button. Suddenly, the air is filled with ear-shattering music. Not the ethereal melody that fits this cathedral of nature but heavy metal. Rage music. A scratchy voice roughened by years of Marlboros screaming.
And there I am, screaming loudly along to the music, whipping my hair around, jumping and running like I’m a part of an invisible mosh pit.
My clothes are streaked with mud from trekking through the woods, arms scratched, blood mixed with sweat. Sticky. Smelly.
I go on with this ugly performance until the music stops. I collapse on the ground in exhaustion, voice hoarse from screaming. Spent, smiling.
That is my greatest dream.
It’s the manifestation of the rage bottled up inside for years. Every minor annoyance, every snide remark, every little and big perceived or real injustice that I fail to express, packed up nicely and tucked away in a corner of my head.
Until it rots and festers. Until it starts to eat me from the inside like a flesh-eating bacteria. An agonizing death.
The unhinged head-banging session in the woods is a way to let the filth flow out of me, unseen and unheard by anyone else, until I’m empty.
The sweat flowing down my arms and dripping on the ground. The waste of my body mixing with the dirt to give birth to hundreds of slimy toadstools. A field of eyesore that sends shivers down the spines of the upstanding, respectable citizens of society.
But slimy and ugly as they are, those toadstools deserve a place in this pristine forest. Why should I hide it? The more I try to shove it in, the uglier it grows.
Paired Listening
From the Five Part Body Playlist
