Though now at an exponentially quicker rate than before, the expansion of Mars and colonies, as well as planet wide forming has been slow, forcing a youngling to go into a very useful field, such as manufacturing or fine-tool manipulation, piloting or adminstration abilities. Being born on the Farcaster, a place not known for space or much in the way of eloquence of the refuges on board. The same was true on Mars (though we call it Red Gift in our native tongue), where survival and putting together a basic colony structure and new home world took favor over lesser pursuits, such as new musics and arts. Indeed, while I might have a talent for body painting, both on canvas of flesh and feathers, beak and hair, I am truly constrained by the old ways, which are old, but locked in a rutt.
So imagine then, after all this rambling, my surprise to be taken, late in the evening, to a place of music, and song, and dance, to be welcomed, in my blue feathers and black skinsuit as an almost honored guest in a night club.
The place was large, awash in reds and blacks and silvers and colors that only the predatory eye of a human can pick out (small differences, we see ultra-violet, while the range of blue is blurred at best). I sat and listened first to the sonorous range of music, with a heavy thumping and pulsing, to the lights that flashed across writhing bodies. My friends, now numbering six, surrounding and talking, and making me feel both outcast, and entirely welcome - they talked about what I didn't know, but provided no shame in stroking feathers and asking me questions.
It was strange. And, in a way, enjoyable. The music made me vibrate, from tail to beak, and filled me with restless energy. It was almost an overload of senses. And yet, this was a low cultural point to some.