I"m in the center of a huge mosh pit with about 500 people surrounding me. All around me is black clothing, even blacker eye liner, body piercings, tattoos, brightly colored hair, bracelets, and perspiration. I feel everyone's heart beating to the music just like mine. The words of the song echoing 100 times, everyone has their own pitch. My smile won't fade away because this is my euphoria; this is my comfort zone.
I"m at The Trocadero or The Electric Factory in downtown Philadelphia, and I can't think of another place I"d rather be. I"m at a rock concert, watching a band doing anything they can to make the crowd jump higher or the amplifiers burst, whichever comes first. It doesn't matter whether or not I know every song they've ever recorded, or I only know the song they've released to Y100, the radio station. It has little significance to the fact that this smile still won't leave my face, no matter how many times I've been pushed or how many times my Converse sneakers have been stepped on.
My pants are rolled up and my tee-shirt is now sleeveless. All of my make-up is sliding off my face and my blown dry hair is now a frizzy, wavy mess. At any other time, in any other place, I would feel ugly and insecure. Now, it doesn't matter what I look like, because no one else is looking, and even if they are, they could care less, and neither can I.
The connection within the crowd is frighteningly tight. You know you could have at least a 30 minute conversation with everyone in the room, because you have at least one thing in common: a love of music. Best of all, it's the feeling of community, like you belong. Everyone wants to belong.
After about three hours, the music stops, but you can't tell. The blaring ring in your ears doesn't go away for at least 24 hours, but I don't mind it. It's a constant reminder of the concert. I can't say that my first thought after a concert ends is when the next one is, even though that's at the top of the list.