I went to a rock concert last week. While I absolutely enjoyed my evening, there is now a bellowing loneliness following the cathartic highs of the musical evening.
For a few hours, you’re in absolute ecstasy. There is the adrenaline rush of seeing your favorite artist in person. There is the surreal image of a live stage in front of you. There are these insanely, psychedelic lights blinding you. And of course, there are the songs: brooding melodies, triumphant bridges, sweeping choruses, mellow verses. All of these can turn out to be a solid cocktail of unbridled ecstasy – better than a cigarette or a glass of whiskey in a Friday evening. Definitely better than drugs.
But once the concert ends, and you see the crowds dissipate and thin out; once the stadium lights are shut off, and sea of humanity empties into a cold, rainy September night, a sadness tinged with nostalgia immediately fills you up.
I was lonely when I found myself in bed the next day, awake, straining to remember if there was indeed a concert, or everything was simply a dream. For a few seconds, I wished I could, and persistently wanted to go back in time: jumping up and down, sweating, singing my heart out, my arms and hands punching through the air with every gallop of a song, ecstatically moving with the massive crowd and their echoing, collective voices. I looked at my crumpled concert ticket, and read the details of the night until I memorized them.
It then hits you. It’s over. The songs have turned to silence. And all the waiting, screaming, and cheering has turned into a physical pain – sore feet, a horrible back, tired eyes, a hoarse voice. You will have to rely on your music player again. You will have to make do with YouTube videos. You will have to wait again for the next musical rush to provide the catharsis from this noise called reality. You will wish you can make it last, but as the cliché goes, “all good things must come to an end.”