My Circus

April 15, 2012
Lullabies whisper as I drag my feet across the dark hallways, again. Seeing all of you every single day, a routine. You are a stranger. The audience. I know your faces but not your stories. You walk down the hallway, and I walk up it. We make that awkward second long eye contact. We say hello with our eyes. I am the Ring-Master hiding behind the rejects of Noah’s ark, telling half-truths and double cryptic lies. You ask the required and polite phrase that no one really cares about, How are you? Your eyes everywhere but me, awkward. The question is obligated to be answered or you might recommend me to your psychologist. Okay, I plastered a smiling mask on, How are you, stranger? Don't make too much eye contact, I remind myself, be polite but not too interested. Trust does not exist in this circus. The price is too high. You, my dear audience, laugh at the clown’s clever act; although, you can’t seem to notice his frown is real. The clown masquerades pain as wit. You may notice the frown but you refuse to decipher the feelings. The people who are smart enough to decode emotions couldn't care less. You don't answer my question, and continue down the hallway. Your converses echo down the empty hallway. Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-ta....
My circus has tigers that growl, elephants that sympathize, illusionists who read the news paper, acrobats that fly, lions who speak their mind, brave mouses on adventures, and hilarious pie throwing contests. But you will never see this. This is my circus. This is what you'll see: A tired tiger, a silent elephant, illusionists who hide magic, a watching lion, and running mouses. Can you see through my lifeless eyes? This circus is like a ghost. Inner feelings. Performed emotions. Life. This is all just average teen-angst to you isn't it?
This circus doesn't trust anyone, the tent boasts higher security than an air force base. I guard my home well: No ticket, no entrance. Oh, you have one? Well I'd like to see it. Please, step right right up! Present it from your arrogant breast pocket, sir, so I can laugh in your face. None but a single ticket to my circus exists: And that's mine, unfortunately.





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