Unwanted phone calls, your relative’s questions about your last relationship, that meeting with your boss, imaginary clothing seasons, strawberries in styrofoam and plastic, autotune on a commercial, the insults of an angry drunk on the way to work, the ideas of priests, dead philosophers, pop psychologists, 20 ads in your Insta feed, articles about not being masculine or feminine enough, friends that go cold: there’s a noise that confuses us, that pressures us, a distortion bearing down on us, trying to mould us.

But inside there’s a noise that frees us. There’s a dance floor, a beat, the sound of something fresh, a new kind of liturgy where we can sway between light and darkness, between being just us, alone with ourselves, relishing our singularity, our autonomy, and merging with the collective, feeling the rush of energy that comes with the group. Between the euphoria of something transcendent, so deep and profound, and the thrill of a fun party. A mass of sweaty, gorgeous bodies, a polymorphous, polyphonic entity of different shapes, of different voices, all delighting in the intimate space we create, dancing, dancing, dancing. Finding pleasure in those days, nights and mornings that will become your best stories – the real ones you die of laughter telling best friends, not those you publish trying to impress a recent date or influential contact. Dance as one of our most primitive rituals with our tribe, and Ruido, noise, as deity, one that guides us to our own truth and ecstasy, transforming us. Like Santa Teresa and her orgasmic meditations, or ancient magical-religious dance rites, but with electronic music, new aesthetics, and much more fun.

Clothes that free us to be anything we want to be, or maybe to be nothing at all – at least nothing that can be labelled.

No gender, no seasons, no labels.
Gender is dead. Genre is dead. Marriage is dead.
Dance as escape, dance as revolution.

We dance the night away, and when the party is over we exchange smiles, bathed in sunlight.