I look around. Blue and red colored lights expose faces highlighted by lit cellphones. Glares of hopeful cameras drown out the souls holding up the lenses with weak arms, praying that what’s being shown in the moment could somehow be captured on the small rectangular screens. A wave of hundreds more flashes surround me from behind, and although I can’t see them in front of me, I assume the worst. Thousands of minds brainwashed with technology, the once in a lifetime experience now copied for millions more to enjoy from home where they, too, are highlighted by lit screens, praying that it will be enough. Praying that they could re-watch this video and somehow feel whole again. Feel completely happy remembering the best night of their lives. The night they came to life. Although I, on the other hand, carry my device in a purse, tucked away so that the only lens in use is the one attached to my face. The one in my eye. And the only real footage I capture lurks in the back of my brain, only to be played back for myself. How I saw it. How I lived it. So that I can grasp every detail. Every small movement of my inspirations doing what they love for a small room in which we breathe together for a night, hoping that it’s enough to last a lifetime. Just for me, who would kill to relive even a second of it. The moment in which each light and harmony, each sound and lyric will never be sung the same. A unique presentation of our hearts being poured out onto a stage, and with each glance and jump I soak it all in. The look on their faces, the perfect cracks in their voice that seem to go unnoticed, and each small drop of sweat that drips from their face and gleams when light hits it at just the right spot. I wipe the drops from my own face, and we smile together as they do the same. In this moment, nothing else matters. In this moment, we are all the same. A couple of broken kids searching for an escape from the prison we’ve created for ourselves within our own heads. A small rectangular screen could never do that moment justice. A sixty second video clip could never bring back the feeling of thousands of people dancing and sweating, holding onto each breath they take. The feeling of looking up to a stage with wide eyes, desperately shouting each word that took them just a day to memorize, tears falling quickly to the floor with every line. The night we were worth it. The night we finally felt alive.