“Are you Kristie Kummings?” He screamed near my face.
There were two guys. Both had Canadian flags wrapped around their waists.
“Who wants to know?” I raised my eyebrows. Also passed a giggle. It came wonderfully free in this spectacular place.
“We have 2000 euros, Kristie.” Flagged the guy with a red stud on the side of his lip.
Their charm of presumption was shot like a bullet to the sky. Sold to heights with trajectory. Bought to ground with gravity.
“Are you asking me for a fuck?”
“We are your biggest fans.” Both looked at each other, agreed and nodded. They were convinced it was a selling point.
“Fans, you say? Then you must adore me from a distance.”
I blew them a kiss and walked into the orgy of spirit. Otto Knows kicked his set. People of the world jumped in the air and the ground below us trembled with sincere compassion.
Sweat couldn’t have found a better home. Over 180,000 liberated bodies touched together in joy, rubbed effortlessly in an unprecedented musical ecstasy, and conquered life endlessly in the exalted borders of toes and fingers.
Every day, as an assigned co-actor studied the tattoo of ankh in between my venus dimples, the known camera would read my face and take notes on it. Only the best looking and most powerful stallions in the industry galloped on my tracks. Yet none of them could craft the wings to my feminine blossoms. Now here I was in the flesh of the strobe wound, pierced through from the armours of excessive mundane existences, where, the dark podcasts of penalties my providences had embellished, were being atoned.
Here was my new church. Where the religion was living. Living above second thoughts. In which the preaching was biased. Biased to inequalities through a common whisper of rumour. That held the poems of music with certain beats per minute. Each beat banging God to beget a new prophet. One who could actually make us look up, revere and celebrate instead of religiously exploding for a sect.
Brands like strangers and fears failed to have any market share in this region. The festival kept it that way. Just a couple of tracks down Otto’s set, a tall man with his girlfriend perched on him asks me, “Do you want to take her place?”. I didn’t think twice. Just asked him, “Won’t she mind?”
“She needs to use the bathroom.” He yelled.
His girlfriend was very sweet. As she alighted, I asked if it was okay with her with me on her boyfriend’s shoulders. She replied, “We are in Tomorrowland. We all belong to each other.”
© Sundeep KP 2014
