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Carpe Noctem

Updated: Oct 25, 2022

The night we don't remember, we'll never forget, and much like our excuse for the drugs, it was just a good time with friends.

As it started it was nothing out of the ordinary for the conglomerated group of clusterfucks. The night was holding much more than they envisioned. The passenger asked the copilot if he was feeling anything as he giggled with the pitch of a twelve year old. He wasn't. The ceremonial lighting of the fuse (spliff) was off kiltered expectations due to a time crunch. While the time crunch may have cut out the opening acts out of the show, it opened up enough space for the lungs of the ghost-ridden squad to fill with more than spliff smoke.

Hand draped over the side of the steering wheel. Tight enough to control the car but loose enough to get some air under my sweaty palm. Forty-five degrees off vertical we finally crested the Roseland theater empire with enough time for necessary preparations before the concert

Insert meme here, that’s when I knew we were fucked up. We were about to have a clean takeoff. That was something our Challenger squad was never good at and I knew couldn’t hold up strong. Sure enough, right on cue, we get what seems like a butt dial. It’s from somebody so fucked up, they are making an ass out of not only themselves, but anybody who listens to more than three seconds of what he thinks are full words coming out of his fucking mouth. What he was trying to get across was how their dumb, drunk, delirious asses remained stranded at the hotel. They needed a ride. They were too fucked up to call an Uber. So as the debate continued on how to gather the liquified dripping personalities into the same vehicle so they may end up as close as possible, a decision had been made inside the drivers head, my head. A prime parking spot was a worthy sacrifice for the stupid squad and safety. The road began to drip and blur like the raindrops coming off the windshield. Refractions had me gazing a half second too long at every drop as they slid off the windshield. They were soaking with a spectrum of new color that was not normally apparent in water droplets. The navigation of a smartphone slowed two seconds each turn by the bustling metropolitan area. The directions and depth perception were being put to the test. Just as the fifteen-minute drive had stretched itself ten minutes past the ETA, a warmth of success washed over the three in the car. They spotted the freaky, funky, fucked up other half. As the car piled with arms and legs, one over the other they all settled into the deepest part that they could sink themselves into. As the car doors closed we slowly took off.

The drive was going to present itself more difficult as the trip rolled on, yet, you were the sober one. However, nothing would make it as difficult as the firecrackers in the car. They were fucking loud. Right as you had one conversation turned down, you had another burst of laughter, and smarmy witty one-line snippet shot out. The directions were the best the driver had received all evening. They were coming from from the furthest seat in the back. It was unexpected as they were being screamed over all other sounds to the front of the car. Turn after turn the ride began to feel like they were riding waves in the ocean instead of in a car. As the final turn into the parking lot was made so were some of the nights first realizations. As some began to to let the excitement sink in, those who had already let it sink in began to feel the rise of something acidic in their stomach. As we managed to escape the frostbite over the two blocks on the way to the entrance of the theater the devilish anticipation of the concert and the oncoming night was setting in. As we would later realize the concert was the least memorable part of the night.

The only overly memorable sections from the set of a world famous DJ were his mother’s appearance and the three bass drops he fumbled like a Raiders rookie. The concert continued and the drugs did their job. MDMA, LSD, and alcohol kept the party going after the music had stopped. After stumbling with directions back to the car, and all stupid sayings spouting from the same faucet of peoples mouths, they geared up for what they knew was a highway back to hell. When the disbanded layers of the face in a painting above the parking lot, across from the car made eye contact with the group it left more than dopamine and nostalgia in their brains. It left a permanent engraving of that night gazing into their brains. As the euphoria showered over the men (and lady) they crawled back into the car and they couldn’t help but light another firework fuse, one after another. If the drive to the concert provided any difficulty at all, the drive back was rich in desperation for silence and despair of sobriety. Passing cars headlights gave more visual effect in the streaks of water streaming off the car and their refractions than anything on the jumbotron that night. Pulling up to the hotel the car came to a stop as the night was expecting to. It did not.

It was then with the stained yellow hue of his glasses that he opened the door to reveal the night's dungeon boiling over with fear and loathing. The Hank and Harvey imposter was stuck in awe watching through Hunter S. Thompson’s ripoff glasses. The paisleys on the carpet of the hotel's hallway seemed to move more than the off shades of violet and lavender let off. Step after step down the hallway each turn in the carpet wiggled and waived with in the designs. The calming cast of forty’s radio hits as soft background music constructed a pretty clear thought process. Just as Gonzo had gone, it came back riding the millennials wave of hippies fashion and psychedelics into popularity. The propostering options had cleared their expectations far before they had begun. As the driver watched the serotonin receptors of the group slowly stand back up in the smoke he decided to write a note or two for his company.

While most would think he was bound to clarify everything he had repeated three times that night, (which was everything he said), he wasn’t. Even with the viciously circular repetition of thoughts, conversation, and mistakes the casting crown of real thought was Vox Nihili, or a voice of nothing as the night went on. The majority of the group floundered in quick one eighties. As they were going from of taking over the world, to choking on water (yes that really happened), the driver let another horse of thought out on the track. Two thoughts lunged out in Latin leading the pack of poor conclusions. The lingering second place was leaving little on the table when it said "Amor Vincit Omnia", or love conquers all. Surrounded by faithful friends, foul fuckery, and facetious roasts of one another the only thing that could stand taller than that was what it created in itself. The building of morals throughout laughter, Castigat Ridendo Mores, it was true and prevalent like euphoric colors, giggles, and the noticeable frequency they were carrying themselves in as they watched the waves wash over.

The “one time I told you” so seems to reoccur with every line spoken and was never satisfying as it should be. It seems for every line I should have held onto that night slipped away, except Allan Walker and his joke, and the only one that stands suffers when the armada isn’t united. Memento Mori…

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