The queue to get upstairs at Harpa has tens of people, maybe even a hundred. As I climb those steps, I can feel the Airwaves flu settling in my sinuses—too many late nights, too much partying, too loud music, and more beers than I can honestly remember. I follow the advice of an older man who says it’s easier to enter Harpa Silfurberg from the side entrance.
He was wrong.
The room is full to the rim with young and handsome people that fought tooth and nail to get the chance to see Kiasmos, and they are expressing their gratitude through dance. Janus and Ólafur have just started their set, and despite trying to push to the centre of the room, I only make it five metres from the entrance.
I feel dreadful; my leather jacket is too heavy and warm, my head hurts, my feet ache, and I generally feel unwell.
And then, suddenly, all of that goes away. Is it the fantastic light show? Is it the slow-moving video backdrop? Is it the very danceable hypnotic music? Have I merged with the swarm, answering only to the hive mind? Have I finally become cool? I feel light-headed, floaty, and watch the projector screen with the curiosity of a child as astral bodies slowly come into view.
And then I remember I’m diabetic, and that these are all symptoms of a hypoglycaemic attack. I measure my blood sugar levels, then devour some sugar tablets. I feel myself stabilise, and prepare to feel terrible again. The headache returns, my feet ache, but I’m still floaty. For a moment, everything is okay, and that moment is good.
I guess it was the music after all. And then I continue dancing.
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