Constellations in Confetti

Soulected, sōl/ekt/ed ; adjective

Meaning 1. To feel chosen very deeply, so deeply you feel it in the part deeper than your bones.

Ex: And when he looked me in the eye, I knew I’d be Soulected; he was the dog I was going to bring home from the pound, and I began planning on how I was going to have to steal him if they said he was already purchased. 

Meaning 2. To experience the pure joy of a Soulection concert.

Ex: Holy shit, when Esta came on! How did it take me so long to be  Soulected? 

At the setting of 2015 and the rise of 2016, I experienced both.


“Aye, aye! 20 seconds ya’ll!” Syd (half of The Internet) called over the microphone.

The crowd hollered back in the bizarre, organized nonsense that only large audiences could produce. Already there were people pumping their hands. Girls heads were spinning, looking for their Someone. I felt boys looking out of the corner of their eyes, heads wishing they could spin just as wildly but trying to remain cool as they privately sought out Someone.

I tucked away my quick smirk into my never-ending smile– the same smile I’d worn for 22 years, which also happened to be held up by the 2 glasses of champagne, 2 Jack n Cokes, and the bliss that comes from any moment I’m dancing.


I heard the screams and heard hundreds of 2015’s flying out of broken people, heard chants of drunk bodies writhing atop lit souls, throwing back there deepest prayers for 2016 deep down into the pit of there existences, knowing it was too late for words while at the same time being the exact moment to sound their dream’s alarm. We were a concert venue piled high with prayers being shaken and stirred by sounds, throwing them back with drinks and hoping they came out less messy then they felt. Feelings were on hold or being held up; however they swam it remained an electric ocean.

We were a community of hopefuls, a community of hopeless. We were moving in infinity and praying we didn’t get lost. We drank to feel light, we drank to feel grounded. We drank so we could feel immortal, we drank so we could let our human out. We were confused, and we wanted to forget.

…and while we knew nothing, we knew One thing– it didn’t matter for the next 10 seconds. If were was anything we could do, it was to commit and contribute to the sounding coundown. We are safe in the countdown! Nothing could happen in the countdown! There was nowhere else to be other than  in the countdown!

For once, we were in control of Time.

A society of too many souls—drunk, sober, hopeless, hopeful—all aware of the silliness of putting too much stock into a manmade “new”, and also maddeningly wrapped around it. What it could mean? We all needed a New, we all wanted a Promise. We’d all lost people, were on our way to losing more, on our way to gaining more AND GOD DAMMIT WE WERE GOING TO HOLD THE SLIVER OF POSSIBILITY IN THIS GODDMAN MOTHER FUCKING COUNT DOWN  WHERE THE HELL IS MY NEW YEARS KISS AND–

I stood in the sea of this Impossible Humanity, refusing to look anywhere but dead ahead, feeling a montage of my past only ever felt when I cry myself to sleep,on those rare nights when lost memories preview themselves on the channel playing my  favorite ones.  All my life’s seconds played, but wired into hyperspeed. They were bursting electricity, hense I didn’t see them; I felt them. It wasn’t feeling alive, it was feeling like I had already lived and there was more.

It was complete Loss dipped in pure gold Hope. All I felt was—






How am I gonna do it?


Right now! Right then! Right now!


Quick Katrina, What was that Marcus Aurelius quote?! Shit, we’re already on—


‘What is the purpose of my soul right now’!


TELL ME AND I’LL DO IT!  I promise with every stage light in this room, even the ceiling’s darkness—


THAT’S IT! It’s the darkness!


The darkness is the light! I GET IT, THIS IS WHY I’M—





And as the world cried out HAPPY NEW YEAR—as my body threw itself up into the air with my own “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” shout—I was a miniature super nova.

And I surely would have passed out from all the Possibility that dropped in The Impossible had Ricky not slapped me on the back and Andrew’s lips swooped in on mine, softly delivering me into a different kind of dizziness.

And as I eased out of the symbolic and found myself standing as Katrina Nelson—simple, happy, broken, full, and with a mane recently painted white—I returned with something in-hand.

My quick voyage into myself (into the room? Into the sky? Into the past? The future? I actually don’t know where I went… but I was back) left me with only one piece of evidence of the time-space travel—

I was given the smallest brush of Purpose. And also this sentiment, fully formed:

2016 is going to be one colorful fucking show, people. We’re going to undo darkness, we’re going to dissect the light that we so desperately live for. We won’t be ruled with black, we’ll smear it with white and cut out corners. We won’t make angels out of our demons (we can’t!) but we can fight with grateful hearts until all the spilled blood makes a masterpiece of our pain. And with the hardest work and the smallest shift in perspective, the never-ending will turn to timeless dancing.

Life is not a countdown, it’s a soul’s build up.

Of course, I wasn’t given the map, the directions, to do it; I’ve only got a couple ideas.

But I do know one thing—

I’m passing out the paintbrushes, since something whispered to me during the countdown that they make excellent swords in the fight for our Purposes.

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