It is finished

I used to live near the very heart of Carnival, right between Tragarete Road, Ariapita Avenue and Cipriani Blvd, three of its major arteries.

So taking part in Carnival for me was never really an option. Carnival woke me up on Jouvert morning, had me chippin in bed on Monday night, and made my home a hub of activity throughout both days, as friends, family members and sometimes total strangers would pass to lime, rest, use the toilet and get something to eat. Having a home right between St James and Port of Spain made liming more of a necessity than a luxury.

We had a front row seat to every major band in the competition. It was always amusing to sit watching the tail sections of a large band a few yards from the house while the front sections of the same band would be on TV, crossing the savannah stage.

Even with all the noise, commotion and lack of privacy, I enjoyed living astride the pulse of Carnival.

Except on Tuesday night, when that heart stops beating.

The end of Carnival always feels like watching some magnificent beast take its last few breaths. Carnival has a spirit of its own, and you can literally feel that spirit struggling against the tide, as stalwarts looking for that last jump-up walk the streets alongside exhausted masqueraders who just want to go home and sleep. The electricity in the air, that heat and rhythm, that bacchanal, that happiness, begins to fade, and a literal coldness, an emptiness, descends on the city.

It feels sad when that magic dies.