The most accurate description of Burning Man is a dirt cleanse. At its most literal interpretation, dust is a really decent dry shampoo, which is a blessing when you're covered in sweat from trekking miles across the playa and haven't showered in four days. It's also an effective weight loss cleanse, because there's no real food around, unless you're rockstarring (a.k.a. you have an RV equipped with a stove). And finally, you hopefully will undergo some sort of soul-cleanse to make this subordination to the elements worth it.

As I made my 8-hour pilgrimage to the Black Rock desert via the Burner Express, I had a vague premonition that three Ultras, two EDCs, a Coachella, and an EZoo would not prepare me for what I was about to experience. Burning Man isn't so much a festival as a community, and maybe even a world to itself. Furry cars with faces, double-decker dragons on wheels, and LED-lit Pacmans float across the playa emitting flames, laser beams, and the occasional superhuman sneeze. Flamingos and jellyfish extend dozens of feet into the sky. At night, the entire playa is illuminated with enormous, buzzing structures, resembling an Alice-in-Wonderland fairy dream crossed with an acid trip on steroids.

I danced above the crowd on the stage of Kalliope, hopped on the deck of a pirate ship as it rumbled its way across the desert, and raved beneath the laser beams of an Illuminati-esque pyramid. Everything is free, and food appeared conveniently when you least expected it. A third-time Burner verified the existence of the pizza booth, a supposedly fabled figment of Burner lore. His friend had been lost in the recesses of deep playa, far beyond the hubbub of the temple, the man, and the surrounding art cars. Sequestered by a vast expanse of darkness and dead silence, he heard a phone ringing, and the outlines of a booth appeared in the distance. Upon picking up the receiver, a voice on the other end inquired: "What kind of pizza would you like?" Jokingly, he responded with "Ham pizza please," and began biking back across the desert. Within five minutes, a mysterious man on a motorbike chased him down and handed him his piping-hot order.

You could say the desert does weird things to the brain, but it's also entirely believable. As we journeyed from one end of the playa to another, we encountered a completely open, circular vehicle resembling a miniature UFO. Like a neon halo, an arching electric sign advertised: "Sammiches." All around its circumference people lounged in various states of gruyere-induced stupor, while the man in the middle handed out grilled cheeses (only caveat: you couldn't ask for a "sanDwich").

But beneath all this, there was also a surprising undercurrent of reality. For starters, the human connections felt real - unlike at other festivals, people weren't nice merely because they were high on various drugs (although there was a good chance they were, too). They seemed interested in initiating genuine conversations, and everyone was an enthusiastic participant in the spirit of giving. And while libations of every flavor lurked around each corner (massages, bondage, group showers - anyone?), there was also ample time and space for serious reflection. The temple, its walls emblazoned with tributes to the dead, never-sent letters bearing words that should have been spoken, was permeated with a palpable somberness. I wandered through, drenched in its heaviness, then stood outside in the dizzyingly fresh night air. And as I stared up at the stars and laser beams, bathed in the music and lights, I was overcome with the poignant realization that I was just a tiny puzzle piece in some immense universal scheme. I was brought back to a moment earlier that day, when a man was distributing letters from experienced festival-goers to Virgin burners. After identifying me as the latter, he asked me to pick a message. Scrawled across the neon-green page were the words "Don't panic." Later that day, at the henna tent, the artist asked what I would like tattooed on my arm to bring back to the "default" world. I told her "trust" - in the universe, in my relationships, in myself.

On my last night, a DJ I didn't recognize spun the best set I've ever heard. Not surprising, actually, because mainstream music often sacrifices melodic complexity for catchiness. Under the dome of Incendia, where flames spouted from the ceiling and erupted against fireproof canvas above our heads, I joined a half-naked, fur-clad tribe writhing with primal energy to the exotic beats. And then it was all over - I had to take the 6AM bus back to San Francisco, and the entire crew I'd befriended walked me home.

Yes, I may have ended up sick for a week (ya girl is not made for camping), missed my delayed flight back to school, and spent way too much money on camping supplies and Dollskill outfits. But would I do it again? Absolutely - albeit next time around with an RV.