Disco Never Died

 Love Letter to the Disco Era

Mirrors multiply the life I’ve lived—
Confessions spin, the night forgives.
Silk, fur, and rhythm collide—
The Disco Era never died.

Dear Disco,
You are more than a genre, more than a decade caught between revolution and excess—you are resurrection. In the strobe-lit temples of your worship, we learned to become infinite. Sequins and sweat mingled like holy water as bodies surrendered to the beat, each pulse a promise that the night would hold us, heal us, forgive us. Under mirrored ceilings, we were a thousand selves reflected back, refracted into light.

You were freedom in motion—heels clicking against linoleum altars, hips swaying to liberation’s heartbeat. The world outside might have been cruel, divided, hungry for conformity, but inside your glittering sanctuaries, we built galaxies out of desire and defiance. The bass was prophecy. The synths were spells. Every song was a chance to be reborn, if only until dawn.

Even now, your pulse hums beneath the skin of modern life—sampled, remixed, resurrected. You live in the shimmer of chrome, in the drag queen’s wink, in the sweat-soaked joy of a dance floor that refuses to end. You are the sound of becoming—again and again and again.

And so I write to you not in mourning, but in devotion. Because I know the truth: beneath every city, beneath every heartbreak, beneath every quiet night, your beat still echoes—proof that once the mirror ball begins to spin, time itself learns to dance.

The Disco Era never died. It just slipped into our bloodstream and stayed.