It was about showing up.
SEGI unfolded not as a perfect production, but as a living thing, spaces opening, trains running late, teleporters misbehaving, and venues revealing themselves piece by piece:
Dr. Parallax, the mastermind of functioning UFOs, the piano curves of J&R’s Ballroom, Moonshadow Motors opening the way to Mars, ED’s stretching from deep space to the moon to underwater worlds, Rachel's Biodome let us breathe in some cosmic air (was it air, actually, we never know), and all the others.
There were nights filled with music, dancing, and laughter, and nights that felt quieter, heavier, and more honest. Moments when the sky turned violet, when the wolves stood watch, when aliens drank too much, cats weren’t really cats, and nothing felt scripted anymore.
People who helped shape the experience just by being present. By asking questions. By bringing music. By watching, listening, dancing, and building. By staying kind when it would’ve been easier not to.
I also learned again that not every connection is safe.
That deception exists even in beautiful places.
That protecting your emotional self isn’t bitterness, it’s wisdom.
SEGI reminded me that worlds don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.
They just have to be alive.
Area 52 in 2025 was a place where imagination and reality blurred, where people came curious and left changed, sometimes softly, sometimes sharply.
Where friendships were formed not because everything went right, but because people kept showing up anyway.
As the year closes, I’m not archiving 2025. I’m carrying it with me. And as SEGI winds down, I’m thankful for everyone who stepped through the gate, for everyone who stayed, and for everyone who helped make Area 52 feel like more than a place.
It was a moment.
And moments like that are rare.
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