Going to a concert alone.

In the past, I have found it difficult to apply makeup to my face when I have somewhere to go but no one to see. As if I am putting on a clown mask and a low-cut top while the sun has already gone to bed. Though, I did not feel this way as I got myself ready for a recent concert in Camden. No, not at all. I smudged black kohl around my eyes and coated a gloss on my lips, put on a pair of leopard print trousers and headed out the door with nothing to beat my heart other than blood and excitement.

There is an embarrassment that accompanies solitude. A societal pity that weighs down on the lonely's and secure's shoulders. She is alone at a concert, in a restaurant, at the cinema, poor thing, oh, she must feel ever so lonely, there must be something wrong with her, do not engage, stare at her, but, my god, do not make eye contact. Though, as I arrived at the iconic Roundhouse, I did not squirm at the queue of people outside the venue. Nor, the queue outside of the restroom, or in front of the bar. I was calm, present, spending time with myself.

Taking a seat now with a cup of orange juice in my palm and still deliberating over whether or not I should go back and buy that expensive merchandise, I could not believe the view. This single ticket had been bought after I convinced myself that Fate kept the seat free for me. Allow me to explain, I wanted to buy a ticket to see Jessie Murph but felt guilty about spending the money. There was one corner seat available but I could not go through with it. A week later, I checked if it was still free, out of curiosity. It was not, I felt disappointed. Then, weeks later, something made me check again. And there it was. A small green circle that said, be kind to yourself, treat yourself, go on, do it. So, I continued to purchase.

I ensured that I did not arrive too early so as not to begin to feel the loneliness, and the fatigue. Although I was sat in my seat for only fifteen minutes, the show started an extra fifteen minutes later and only then did I start to feel vividly alone. Not lonely, but very much alone. At last, the lights dimmed and the bass erupted. I put my, now empty, cup down, ready to rise to my feet and dance. The first song was almost over and not one person was standing, let alone dancing. By the end of the second song, my confusion and agitation grew. Grabbing my bag, I ran to the back where there were a group of like-minded people stomping their soles to the beat.

Despite there being a cluster of young women beside me, the aisle separated us, which resulted in my isolation. I must admit, I felt awkward. I have danced alone in a club, in a bar, it never bothered me because there were enough pulses in my proximity for me to forget I was by myself. Here, at this concert, it was very much apparent that I was separate from the friends next to me, the couples sitting in front of me.

It took quite a few songs for me to let go of the feeling that I had thousands of eyes watching me, pitying me, questioning my sanity. Truthfully, I do not remember the songs that were sung during the first half. I was too conscious of my own solitude. I tried so hard to snap out of it. There were only so many times I could attempt to make eye contact with the people beside me, waiting for an invitation to dance closer to them. Then, finally, I did snap out of it. Like a firework, I erupted into the darkness. And, once I started, I could not stop.

I sang, I danced, I rapped. At one point, the couple in front of me turned in their seats to applaud my completion of a very fast and difficult verse. I laughed. I closed my eyes to feel every note, every word. I rested my palm on my heart and swayed to my favourite ballad. I pointed my fingers to the air like a gun. I swore. I shouted. I screamed. I flicked my hair from side to side. I shone a flashlight in the air. I even let go so far that I skipped up and down the empty aisle. I was alone, yes, but that meant the moment was all mine.

I do not mean to get too churchy on y'all, the Alabamian singer projected. She requested we turn to our neighbour, and we hug them. The audience flared into noise — friendly exchanges, sweet laughs. From above, I watched everyone hug one another. I turned to the people beside me, just on the off chance they would hug me. But, they were too focused on each other to look to the stranger on their own with nobody to hug. This could have made me cry. Could have sounded just like somebody screaming at me, YOU ARE ALONE, YOU ARE LONELY, until I cowered to the ground and dampened my clothes with my tears. I could have been lonely, but I was not. I had myself, after all. Sometimes I forget that I am still a person worth respecting and loving.

Leaving the venue amongst a herd of cattle, most of whom were intoxicated and complaining about the crowds, I did not stress. Did not check the train times so I could run for the first one. Did not furrow my brows like a lost puppy. Did not fill to the brim with anxiety. No, I moved with the tide. My eyelids may have felt heavy, but my heart felt light. How proud I was of myself that evening.

~~~

This essay is featured in my magazine, Solitude Magazine. If you would like to read the full digital magazine and receive a new issue each month in your inbox, please leave me your email address.