God is the DJ, Life is a Dancefloor
the party will go on with or without you
If there is ever a physical entrance to ‘house music’, I believe I am standing right at the doorstep. My eyes are wide, holding a soft sight of fear, curiosity, and fascination together. Fear, because entering the world of house music demands active participation, embracing everything it has to offer without judgment or expectation. It reminds me of the first time I heard poetry read aloud or listened to live jazz underground in Paris. I remember that moment of pure wonder, knowing there would be no turning back.
By the time we reach a certain age—say 26—it’s not surprising that we’ve been exposed to most things, whether we acknowledge it or not. House music has always been nonchalantly buzzing in the back of my mind, softly echoing through my late teens and early twenties at Rutgers bars or Philly nightclubs. Back then, the music—or rather, the feeling—never followed me home after the party. It stayed there, dying a slow death with the last call for drinks at 2 a.m.
But I’ve realized that the things that move me deeply in life aren’t sudden discoveries. The passions I hold now, the ones with real depth, have always been present—like dim grey orbs floating above me. Only when I pay close attention does one of those orbs burst with color, melting into my heart—a quiet proclamation of a passion being born. It’s only in the feeling that we attach meaning to something.
It was the end of August when I found myself standing on a small square rooftop overlooking the city skyline, wearing all black and blue mascara. I was with a friend of a friend, who had brought along her own friends. There we were, navigating a mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity as we introduced ourselves over sets of drum and bass. Fresh off a breakup (still am), I dreaded that night. I felt so raw to the world, skin and bone laid bare to the wind, waiting for whatever metaphorical debris might crash my way.
It’s a poetic cliché, isn’t it? The act of coming alive in unpredictable places after a breakup. But that’s the beauty of starting over, isn’t it? You find yourself forced to be open to everything because suddenly, you feel like you’re left with nothing. Suddenly, there is no map to guide you to yourself anymore. You simply float.
Four rows away from the DJ shuffling a mix of drum and bass and UK garage, I floated. People were dressed in hues of black, grey, silver, and gold. Men with tattoos and thick mustaches stood a head taller than me, shuffling awkwardly out of the five-foot-five-and-below crowd’s way. Women in black leather jackets, lace tights, and knee-high boots weaved through the crowd, drinks held high in one hand, vapes clutched discreetly in the other.
When I looked up at the starless, polluted sky, puffs of smoke formed and disappeared quickly across the rooftop. Red lights from the stage cast a bright glow across everyone’s faces, creating an intimate, sultry atmosphere. I breathed in the mix of cigarettes and candy-flavored vape and exhaled. Every sense was stimulated, and I had never felt so at peace with my own body, swaying endlessly from left to right. With each song, my heart beat fast and slow to the unusually addictive rhythm. I couldn’t help but grin at the sound, watching the music move through the bodies around me. Behind me, my friend danced and mingled with the girls next to her. In front of me, hands rose above our heads, fingers snapping or twirling, as if reaching for the lights above in unison.
It was as if we were all letting go of something: control, spite, reality, or love. It didn’t matter—we were floating alone but together. Live performances—regardless of the medium—always held me captive in this feeling.
On nights like these, anxiety—thoughts disguised as problems—visited me only while I stood in line for the bathroom. It made sense; it was the only space where sound couldn’t chase them away. I was amazed by how quickly, the second I was alone with my thoughts, they felt cocky enough to kill my high. What little shits, those thoughts were. I noted them as they took turns coming up for air, each demanding the same level of attention:
“Why can’t you accept the love given to you?”
“Do you even deserve more?”
“What more can you want?”
“You don’t even know what you want.”
And so on, and so forth.
Each thought felt like a weight pulling me down, a reminder of everything I was trying to escape that night. I barely looked in the mirror while washing my hands, my gaze fixed on the sink as the pale neon green lights flickered above the walls. The line for the women’s restroom stretched around a dozen people, but I wanted to stay. I wanted to crawl into a stall, pull both feet up, and drift off into the chaotic scribbles decorating the door. But that required giving up the night, and I had spent too much energy picking out the perfect outfit to surrender that easily.
So I stepped out to dance again. On the dance floor, the music built a wall around my mind. Every beat and bass drop acted like another brick, sealing doubt and unnecessary clutter. I felt untouchable. There was no space for the past or the future; it was just now. That’s what live music does—it suspends you in the present, freeing you from everything but the sound and the feeling moving through your body. The only agenda was to breathe in rhythm and harmony with those around me.
For four hours, I was able to forget that my heart was quietly nursing itself, bandaging wounds too deep for my mind to comprehend at this time. For four hours, my body moved on its own, neglecting both mind and heart through dance. For four hours, my mind was slow to understand that this was where happiness could be found.
I knew then that I wanted to do this again. I wanted to come back, despite knowing I might feel the hot breath of my heartbreak on my cheeks and chest. I might crave a high so intense that I forget my name. I might feel ugly under the smoke and the thick neon lights on my face. But I have this peculiar habit of sanctifying the spaces where I’ve found pure happiness—however brief—because that’s how I remind myself that I can be happy. There is, I think, a difference between being happy and experiencing happiness. I’ve experienced happiness my whole life, through shared memories with others and for others.
But to be happy, especially in moments when it sweeps you up in surprise, is to be blessed. By God or the DJ, who is to say? I believe we are all born to dance our lives away, to be saved by art, to read poetry out loud, or to stand outside a jazz venue, listening to the way instruments merge into one.
In these spaces, happiness is fleeting, as are joy, wonder, and all the good emotions in between. They do not wait for us; they do not seek our permission to stay. These emotions are divine—they come and go as they please, so ephemeral. It is up to us to embrace them as they come and never question their presence, because, like a good party, they will go on with or without you.
This was such a good read! I cant even count how many times I said “damn, I wish I wrote this well!” Lol
If we are born to be saved by art, I've done a good thing by reading this luminous, exhilarating piece. Thank you for transporting me from my cubicle to a poetry reading / jazz bar / DJ set happiness hybrid!