Turn it Up


Do you know that feeling?

It’s still light outside, but the sun’s already gone down. The night holds off just a bit longer, while the bright of day lingers like the smell of cigarettes in your fingers.

It’s 10 pm, but time passes by so fast when you’re having fun. You’re three pints of beer in, and this is just pregame.

A certain sort of drunken haze descends on your brain. A bit like a fog, and a bit like a fizzy drink. The start of a slow acidic burn while not quite knowing where you’re going or where your next step will land.

Walking down the streets of Paris at night, the company is excellent. The city comes alive, and the neon signs light up like flaming arrows in the sky.

In your mind, you write. Tenses keep getting crossed. You talk in the third person, second person, first person, unperson, past, present, no future.

Crossing the streets, laughing. People will call you “revellers”. The rebels. The square pegs in the watering hole. Yet one more among thousands doing that exact same thing this very moment.

But tonight it doesn’t matter. You cross the street, while singing “Despacito”. You don’t know the words and neither does she, but that doesn’t matter, because that’s not the point. You don’t need to know everything. You just need to feel something.

You could cut the tension with cheese wire.

Dancing. Strobe lights. Alcohol. Loudly belting out Robbie Williams. Money that you don’t have, mixed with wants that you do.

Yet you never run out of breath. Your old bones will feel this in the morning, but tonight you feel nothing and everything at the same time. Alive, I suppose they call it.

Pretend to pick a fight. Pick a fight. Pick the tab. Pick your poison.

“Monsieur? Monsieur? …Monsieur? We’re here. You’re home. Can you make it upstairs alright?”, Uber drivers have enviable bedside manners.

Elevators that don’t work. Keys that don’t turn. Texts that shouldn’t have been sent. That last cigarette you shouldn’t have smoked.

Do you know that feeling?

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