Each night develops its own culture, where all sorts of things are exchanged. Normally, I can’t keep my eyes open past midnight, but that Saturday we spent an hour and a half in the queue, it’s three in the morning, and I still want to keep going. With three friends, we slip through the crowd in a train formation, holding hands until we find a spot where we can accustom ourselves to the music. I close my eyes and start letting the rhythms guide me.
My friends head to the toilet one by one, and even though I always stay sober, my energy changes with theirs. They get giggly and lift me up with their newfound energy. We call it an osmosis high; you start imitating behaviour without having taken any substances yourself. It’s not like I’m pretending, I’m not acting, but I share their joy before I even realise it. Dancing with our sweating bodies up against each other, it’s as if our bodies are transferring substances and energy amongst them. I rub my hair over my face and it feels nice.
By sunrise, I look for some cool air. In the smoking areas at technoparties, I always find the same people, telling each other the same things again and again. I talk to the kind of guy who calls a club a ‘space’. As in: “I was in a ‘space’ in Berlin that changed my life.” Someone who’s eager to tell you all about the queer-feminist books he’s read and expects admiration in return. I turn around and speak to a girl who tells me that sometimes she sleeps with her best friend and her boyfriend, but no one is allowed to know.
The DJ plays one last song to close out the night: Skin by Madonna. Around me, I see people chewing gum, glancing nervously about, unsure of what to do. “I’m not like this all the time“, sings Madonna. My throat is hoarse, my osmosis high is fading and I think I’m coming down with a cold.