i didn’t walk.
i sat in the first row, just close enough to feel the beat in my chest.
the floor glowed — not metaphorically, but actually.
light from above, sharp and circular, caught on the sweat of someone’s shoulder mid-dip.
it stayed there longer than expected.
people were yelling. not words, just recognition.
you know the sound.
when a move is too precise, too smooth, too honest to be ignored.
someone hit the floor and bounced back like they never touched it.
a house name echoed.
as legend. as fact. as affirmation.
i watched.
not from a distance, but from a place that knew how close it all is to disappearing.
how fast the lights go down.
how quickly the archive forgets us.
a phone beside me was shaking: someone filming, their hands unable to stay still.
the dj looped a beat that rose from under the floor, not over it.
and in that moment, nothing was held back.
i wasn’t walking.
but i was inside it.
inside the noise, the heat, the charge.
inside the circle of people screaming each other into aliveness.
and that’s the thing.
this isn’t spectacle.
it’s communion.
it’s how we stay legible to each other.
in the light of our own making.
again.
in the light of our own making.
again.
until the lights cut,
until the floor clears,
until the next time.
it started slowly, like most good things.
paul and i drifted through vieux-montréal, not in a hurry, not quite anchored.
work came in waves—open tabs, notes half written, a reply sent too late but still meaningful.
the afternoon stretched without agenda.
there’s a softness in being accompanied without being watched.
the streets felt unfamiliar in a familiar way.
like they’d been repainted since last week but forgot to dry.
a man singing to himself passed us near saint-paul.
no one looked twice.
by the time we reached frontenac, the air had changed.
just enough rain to make you notice.
just enough light to feel like something was ending.
we said goodbye without ceremony.
no need for it.
i kept walking east, alone.
the drizzle softened the sounds of the city.
my breath felt louder than usual.
there’s something about walking in the rain that makes your thoughts feel more like weather than noise.
the lights on sherbrooke flickered early.
someone had chalked a heart onto the sidewalk that was already dissolving.
i didn’t take a photo.
it didn’t need to last.
i just kept moving.
not away, not toward.
just through.
stood there teaching, not to perform,
but to remember.
to speak of what refuses extraction.
to name what pulses under erasure.
black keffiyeh against the chest,
kiki futures on the screen.
the room knew.
not everything had to be said.
some things shimmered between us.
the conference ended.
or maybe it didn’t.
people lingered like the performance was still going.
hallway laughter.
cups half-full.
a woman nodding too hard at nothing.
i had asked my question.
black faces in every slide,
but no data that spoke to us.
just placement.
just image.
the speaker deflected.
clean. soft.
the room let it happen.
i stepped outside.
cold air, wet pavement,
nothing sticking.
then he said it.
ben énervé, hein?
like anger was the problem.
like clarity was a disruption.
like i wasn’t still there.
i found him.
calm. exact.
you don’t get to narrate my presence.
he laughed.
i didn’t.
i walked home with the cold in my hands.
still here.
still mine.
theory. metaphor. refusal.
how we stayed alive.
