The sudden heavy rains and typhoons in the summer of southern China have almost become a routine. On a rear night, I went to a secret psytrance party beneath a bridge at an outdoor skate park. The event organizer was wary of any discussion about drug overdoses in the group chat, let alone potential psychedelic use. Most participants seemed quite sober. Some were people coming straight from work, some were young people with nowhere in particular to be, or people who had drifted to Guangzhou for the time being, unsure where they would go next. People spread picnic mats across the grass, lit candles, read tarot cards, and share the cigarettes and alcohol. J complained about his shattered dreams of forming a rock band, his six-day workweek, and the labor laws that existed only in name. He had to go to work early the next morning, but still throwed himself to the overnight rave, saying that it was the only way to resist work. D had just arrived in Guangzhou with barely any savings, several modular synthesizers, a plastic saxophone, and some camera equipments. In Chongqing, he made a living by attending experimental art classes on behalf of others, asking for money at punk festivals, and taking occasional music gigs. Most of the time, he moved between friends’ homes, staying wherever he could.
Nearby, the psytrance music looped on and on. The music was somewhat repetitive, few people seemed particularly immersed in it and kept dancing. Most of the time, we were simply doing our own things. J was climbing a tree, D was trying to add some improvised accompaniment with his flute. In the distance, shirtless teenagers took turns riding along the river, sitting in the baskets of a bicycle.
As dawn approached, I sat beneath a tree, swaying an almost-empty bottle of alcohol in my hand and looking up at the full moon. J said he could almost see the outline of the sun through it, feeling as if time and space had become dislocated.
But sometimes the night seemed as though it could stretch on without an end. In the end, we each went home without waiting for the sun to rise.
I had planned to go to a queer party that night, but the it was called off the day before. All the related posts were deleted. Only a brief explanation remained, with similar wording used in so many announcements for canceled events:
“The party was canceled due to force majeure and special circumstances.”
Angry and disappointed, a few friends went somewhere else and quietly celebrated a night of their own, a night forbidden, a night they were not allowed to see and hold each other. Later, I saw one of them write on social media:
“For us, creating and embracing joy itself is radical.”
I spent countless sleepless summer nights in that southern city. Perhaps it was the frequent late-night raves that completely disrupted my sleep. Or perhaps it was some lingering restlessness that kept my mind from settling. Lying in bed felt like simply waiting for something to slowly drain out of me. I imagined myself as a candle, melting down until, at some point, I could finally dissolve into the darkness. But perhaps it was only time that was flowing out of me.
With days like these, and in this heat and humidity, the nights seemed unbearably long, with nowhere for all those hours to go. Sometimes I feel a strong sense of youth, a feeling that there is so much to waste, so much to lose, and, of course, no real sense of where life is drifting. This night could pass without sleep, and there was no need to hold on to tomorrow. There was little left in the world that we could control, other than accepting that we can only let go.
At other times, I stared at the swollen walls, webbed with cracks, and imagined that they would collapse soon, like an ending that had already announced itself. I was about to leave anyway, as I always seem to do. Perhaps I would be spared from witnessing the day it finally came.
