Anyone who tells you that a mosh pit is not an artwork has never been in a mosh pit. I am not a religious person, but moshing is a religious frenzy. Nothing matters except the body; controlled by the strings of music like a puppet. Kids that have never met: screaming, sweating, jumping, kicking, pushing, slamming. An act that in any other situation would be one of violence is here simply a consolidation of shared energy. Everyone is fighting each other not to win and not to lose but to create a sphere of electricity. A sphere of rage; not towards each other but towards those telling them who they are. Rage because they don’t have a choice. Yet rage never hinders kindness amongst the mosh: If someone falls, it's a collective effort to pick them up again. Some are from prep schools in the valley, some are from public schools in East L.A., and some are from art schools in downtown. But it doesn’t matter where they go to school or what outfit they are wearing or how much money they have. The mosh pit transcends social order. The children forget what their parents told them, forget what prophecy history demands them to fulfill, forget who they are expected to become. There is no time for that in the mosh pit. Teenagers, at the precipice of the rest of their lives, become kids again. They are brought a bit closer to the nakedness they were born in. A nakedness they aren’t allowed to miss. Maturity, appearance, and tight smiles to be taken seriously all dissolve. They don’t care if they will wake up covered in bruises tomorrow morning. That’s tomorrow's problem. In the mosh pit there is only today. Time does not exist, yet it is fleeting. The end always comes. The electricity releases, the sweat becomes embarrassing. The show is over and one must search the dark floor for the earring that was ripped out or the phone that was dropped or the car keys that jumped. Hopefully, you find them because you’ll need them during the trek to the rest of your life.