Burning Man Is Not a Festival — It’s a Desert Awakening

Burning Man is not a festival — it's a transformation

It's like if Stanford, a desert rave, a contemporary art exhibition, and an ancient shaman all merged into one being and decided to live through your inner transformation for you.

People who feel like dreams

I met a girl from Toronto who was convinced she was a witch. On the third day, she gave me a stone and said it vibrated on my frequency. Later we danced at sunrise to some kind of Japanese techno-house. The next morning, she left to find meaning in the desert. I never found her—or the meaning. But the stone remained.

Trust the toast and a glowing jellyfish

I met a guy who introduced himself as Alex but said here he’s “Star Cat.” He made me a mozzarella toast with the phrase “Trust the dust” burned into it. We sat under a glowing jellyfish sculpture and talked about blues. He turned out to be a developer from California and had the best chillout spot in camp.

Where strangers give compliments

One stop had a Compliment Bar. Strangers said kind things to other strangers they'd never met. Someone told me, "You look like someone who could be trusted with a galaxy." Two days later, I met a grandpa in a mermaid costume at the same spot.

A glowing cloak, a deer-bike, and a silent rave

I met a woman in her sixties who said it was her eighth time at Burning Man—because, here, men listen. She wore a glowing cloak and rode a bicycle shaped like a deer. She invited me to a silent rave—everyone had headphones on, but we were all still yelling. It was beautiful.

The art of unresolved pain

On the third day—eyes full of dust, electrolytes in hand, and baby mango puree for lunch—I met a guy who had lived in a monastery in Nepal for two years. Now he builds art installations shaped like emotional wounds he can’t let go of. One was a giant open hand with the words “Say it anyway.” We just stood there in silence.

When everything becomes unreal

At night… everything becomes surreal. Fire, lights, costumes, dancing, smells, dreams. Everything you thought you were begins to dissolve. And everything you feared most comes in for a hug. It's not scary. The desert is just showing you.

Fire, silence, and the ones you don’t take pictures with

Then it all burns. You stand in front of the giant burning Man, and inside, there's absolute silence. Not because there's nothing—but because there's peace.

I met people you don’t want to take pictures with. You just want to sit in silence beside them. No one writes about them in posts. But they might be the reason I’ll come back.