In chaos, that's where...

He's on the stage,

and they can feel the magic.

His silhouette glows against

the frisky, tight arc of lights,

the center of his musical space

dimmed by the smoky hues

of passionate breaths.

A cacophony of deafening sounds erupts:

stereo melodies living in their ears,

the impassioned gusto of instrumentals

enduring their fleeting incapability,

jarring voices echoing through the crowd,

and the commotion of thoughts in their heads

(the ones they keep forcing back

into some semblance of order).

But they’ve always been here—

comfortably,

or maybe because they’ve grown used to it:

the chaos,

where the scent of sweat mingles

with collective urban gasps

of weary, depressed souls.

The melody of his voice

echoes their experiences—

the brokenness,

the confinement,

the weight of mental exhaustion.

And when he reaches out,

touching the air,

his gaze fixed somewhere between

the void and the burdened sea of eyes,

they feel

escaped.

He whispers his song;

they exhale their agony.

This is the art of solitude.

Lost in the crowd—

not apart,

but alone,

together.

They defy the world.

They fixate on something unseen,

hearts skipping in sync with the pulsing stereo.

He bangs his head,

and they sway theirs with abandon.

He leaps higher,

and their spirits rise with him.

The music crescendos, deafening,

lungs heavy with euphoria.

Lights blink,

momentarily blinding their weightless eyes.

That moment—a fragile line—

they’re suspended

between emptiness and depth,

living in two worlds at once:

the slap of reality,

and the rush of fantasy.