By Eléa Romæra
It washes over me like gravity, sinking into my soul, notching up my spine like fingers in my hair, interwoven, a puppet master that leaves marks, bruises in my flesh, and I am wild-eyed with it, breathless. The bass line doesn’t care, it just grinds away in the air, a driving force that bends me to its gritty sway, percussion trying to snap me in half as it hisses and rolls through me, footprints twist like serpents in my heart, sweat down my back. I am laughing inside, seething with this electricity like the ocean tide, the unstoppable dance with god.
You never say what “it” is which, to me, left the string of emotions and similes without purpose..