It’s all in the comma. A pause. A self-awareness. A narcissistic pleasure of inhaling the echo of one’s voice. Except it’s not – when everything is everywhere and anything is possible; when art, drugs, music, dancing, love, bitterness, crazy costumes, fire – when all of it crescendos into a roaring cacophonous kaleidoscope, then it becomes uniform white noise. A tabula rasa. Specs of dust in a dust storm painting your vision. And then it’s you, in a cloud, alone with your thoughts. This was my burn.
I’ve had several people ask me “What is Burningman?” I can’t speak for others, but to me it’s about two things: 1) extreme respect for individuality and 2) self-awareness.