The field - looping state of mind(sketch)

assimilated by Techno ⬡⬡⬡⬡


It was warm. That was the first sensation, a warmth that pulsed through the body like blood, a steady and unrelenting current. The rhythm wasn’t confined to sound; it was tactile, pressing against the skin like sunlight on a summer afternoon. It vibrated in the soles of their feet, in the hollow of their chest, in the fragile bones of their skull. 

To exist in the rhythm was to be enveloped. There was no separation between self and sound, between body and motion. The bassline thrummed through every muscle, every tendon, guiding the body like a gentle hand. There was no strain, no hesitation—only effortless movement, as though the rhythm had always been there, waiting to be uncovered.

The air was thick with it. Each breath tasted of heat and energy, charged with a tension that never broke. It was intoxicating, like the first sip of wine or the rush of adrenaline after a sprint. The rhythm filled the lungs as much as the ears, its pulse expanding and contracting with each inhalation.

Even the mind was not spared. Thoughts didn’t just quiet—they dissolved, melting into the beat like snow under the sun. There was no room for regret here, no space for fear or uncertainty. The rhythm claimed it all, sweeping away the burdens of memory and anticipation.

The absence of thought wasn’t frightening; it was liberating.

Without the clutter of the past or the weight of the future, existence became beautifully simple. The body moved when it was meant to move. The breath rose and fell in perfect sync. The world reduced itself to the endless now, an eternal present in which nothing could go wrong because nothing needed to be decided.

The rhythm cared for them.

It wasn’t a cruel master, nor a merciful one—it simply was. It demanded nothing except surrender, and in return, it gave everything. To live within the rhythm was to be weightless, to be free of choice, free of doubt, free of self. It was a salvation as soft and enveloping as a dream.

And yet, there was texture in the experience. The rhythm wasn’t smooth; it was layered. The bass was heavy, grounding them, while the higher tones danced above like sparks in the dark. The sound wasn’t static—it shifted, evolved, building and breaking in waves that carried the collective along.

Their skin tingled with each shift, as though the rhythm spoke directly to their nerves. Each beat sent a ripple through their muscles, an electric surge that left them trembling with pleasure. Their heartbeats synced to the tempo, their blood rushing in perfect time.

And the others—oh, the others.

They didn’t see them as individuals anymore. The faces around them blurred, indistinct and unimportant. What mattered was the unity, the way every body moved together as one seamless organism. There was a comfort in this togetherness, a deep and primal reassurance that they would never be alone, never be apart.

They were the rhythm, and the rhythm was them.

To an outsider, the scene might have looked chaotic—sweating bodies writhing in time to an invisible force. But to those inside, it was the opposite of chaos. It was order. It was meaning. It was existence stripped of everything unnecessary, reduced to its purest, most blissful form.

There were no questions here, no doubts, no distractions. Just the warmth, the vibration, the endless flow of sound.

And in that flow, there was peace. ⬡⬡⬡


The Field and other music by axel willner
