Of Moments and Magic

I don't write because I can; I write because I can't perfectly express that of which is being experienced.

Image by Shauna Summers

My first foray into writing was works of fiction in my twenties. But not just any fiction—I wrote psychological horror, some gore, and a smidge of erotica. “But why?” You ask disappointingly, Mother. I wanted my words to be felt, bringing to life a universe between the reader’s eyes through verses in the intersection of voyage and voyeurism.

The people who were oddly willing to read my amateur penmanship would either shadow-ban me from their lives or tell me that they felt something in the darkest corners of their nether regions. Such scenes.

After an internal audit (kidding), I felt that milking such literary thrills was lazy. So, as a broke bartender, I wrote about my experience with music—specifically, in nightlife, in a blog. I traded my daytime literary nightmares for nocturnal adventures.

If the music was good, drinks were decent, and the crowd wasn’t made out of douchebags, I tend to get easily swept away in the collective euphoria during a DJ set. But how d…