MONOCHROMOS
Music is stronger than oppression.
It started with the end, a mixture of unprovoked sounds shaking the floors and Sahar found herself in the middle of the dance floor moving her body in unorganized directions. She stopped to care a long time ago, she was there to escape, to be anyone but herself, so she danced and danced some more until the room span and her thoughts radiated color.
Some smells repulse you and yet you cannot help but feel drawn to them, a push and pull battle between a sense of disgust and the addictive temptation of testing your limits. That’s how the club smelled: sweat, fabric, saliva, and the aura of drinks. The faster she moved, the more of the mix got into her nostrils. Sahar hated it, yet loved it, so she swirled in circles and stretched her arms wide open.
There is something unspoken about what music does to us, how it penetrates under our skin and gets our hearts beating through our bones. Sometimes Sahar wondered how would life continue without music, without art. It would take courage to go on living without music. No, not courage, stupidity, recklessness. Courage is to wear your beats openly and dance to the rhythm wherever it hits even when your survival isn’t guaranteed.
Tonight she went out alone, the last months have been full of people, family and friends overwhelmed her every day life and it felt like with every interaction she had to give up a piece of herself. So tonight she took off on her own to embrace her neediness. She liked to be alone, loved to experience art individually, it made her think of everything that stands outside her body in a different light, like suddenly she no longer is a living breathing part of reality but the viewer of a wide screen where everything continues to become.
She watched the couple in the corner as their hands slid under each other’s shirts while their legs moved to the rhythm of the song. Thirsty, she thought. Hot. So she stared some more, studying their bodies, the curves of their waists, their knees clicking every time they go closer, their lips moving close but not touching, the cheeks brushing against each other, their hands swaying through the fabrics. Sahar admired their freedom in desiring each other. She desired them.
She dragged her heels to the bathroom, stood in the line and stared at the reflection of her messy hair in the mirror. She wiped some residue mascara from under her eyes and breathed in deeply. 6 women stood in front of her. If she waits, she’d be giving up on 15 minutes of music that she could devour, if she didn’t, she’d simply feel uncomfortable for the rest of the night. So she waited in the line, the dimmed light slid from underneath the stools and the sound of the music echoed by the walls. She couldn’t help but move her body while watching the others move theirs. She waited for some minutes until she got there, locked the door, leaned her head on the cold metal and breathed in sync with her heartbeats. She didn’t really need the bathroom, she just needed a moment to collect herself. Her vision got blurrier and the floor didn’t seem to hold still. The cold of the door run through her skin and her lips twitched into an involuntary smile.
Sahar felt things so intensely, like the music could free her and jail her, like the beats suddenly made everything else outside these walls so small and insignificant. Here, she was Sahar, just that. All that she is was strangers’ perceptions of her, and all that they are, was her reflection of them. Here, she didn’t need her passport to dance, she didn’t need to defy the occupation to move, she didn’t need to be strong, she could be as vulnerable as she wanted and still the sun will rise the next morning. Here, time lost its trajectory.
Hours went by, Sahar absorbed every single sound she’d heard and locked it away within herself. And at dawn, when the sun finally rose, she walked outside the club.
She stood by the entrance of the club smoking a cigarette as groups of people emerged outside, each going in different directions back to a mundane life. It was almost 6am, early enough to go home and get ready for the daily modern slavery, and late enough to say one has enjoyed their night to the fullest.
She recognized the man coming into her direction, he was one of the bartenders that served her tonight. He wore a dark blue beanie and fidgeted on his heels. Sahar handed him the cigarettes pack, his tattooed fingers picked one up, and she lit it with the last bits left in her lighter then tossed it to the trash. They leaned their backs to the wall and smoked in silence, they could have so much in common, or maybe none, their lives could be strikingly similar or drastically unrecognizable. Neither cared to know.
She dragged the last puff and walked off to the bus station, she heard the bartender’s voice in the background asking her if she needed a ride. She knew she couldn’t risk it for either of them, so she declined and continued to catch her ride home.
She rested by the side of the road, there wasn’t much to do except stare at the face of the sun and squint.
Bored. Boredom. Bored. Bored, wouldn’t cut it, the adrenaline wearing off. It was much more, an uncomfortably slow discomfort weighing on her jaw. If she could, she’d crack it, but then what use is a broken jaw to a woman like her?
When did life become this hollow? Amidst its noise, the silence prevailed. Amidst all its colors, all grey remained.
She looked ahead and saw a monochrome and she thought, “music is stronger than oppression”.
Text inspire by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9VYKrtziSg
