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The year ahead is like a circus performance in a world devoid of gravity. The show begins with the illusion of control – a ringmaster in a tall hat calls the audience to attention, his voice trembling with uncertainty while straining to sound authoritative. The curtain rises, but instead of solid ground beneath their feet, everything is consumed by an endless weightlessness.
The clowns float aimlessly, their painted smiles stretched in desperation as they try to catch props that constantly slip from their grasp. The audience watches, but it’s unclear whether they are mere spectators or part of the performance – their faces flicker like holograms, always on the verge of disappearing.
In the centre ring, the trapeze artists launch themselves, but there is no safety net to catch them. Their flight seems infinite, directionless. They drift apart, their hands reaching for something invisible – a dream or a reality they can no longer grasp. The acrobats stretch the laws of physics to their breaking point, but their movements feel more like desperate attempts to cling to their own essence than to impress the crowd.
And then, there’s the hall of mirrors – a strange sideshow tent in the circus. Here, every projection is cast back at us – our hopes, our fears, our masked faces. But the mirrors are shattered, and each fragment reflects a different version of the year, a different story. Which one is real? Who can say?
The music is chaotic – a cacophony of pompous trumpets and distorted violins that cuts to the soul. It has no rhythm, no beginning, no end, only a constant sensation of something suspended in the air – a decision, a conclusion, an escape.
The circus goes on, floating in a vacuum between the real and the artificial. The performance never ends, for there is no “next act” – only an eternal, weightless dance towards something indefinable. The audience does not applaud. They cannot decide whether the show is beautiful or tragic. Perhaps it is both. Perhaps it is neither.
Poem:
The ringmaster calls with a tremor concealed,
In a voice that wavers, its authority steeled.
The curtain lifts; the ground is lost,
In a realm where gravity pays the cost.
The clowns float by with painted grins,
Hiding despair as the show begins.
Their juggling acts, a futile fight,
To hold the pieces in the weightless night.
Above, trapeze artists leap and soar,
Reaching for dreams they can’t restore.
No net below, no tethered line,
They drift apart in endless time.
The mirrored tent reflects our fears,
A kaleidoscope of fractured years.
Each shard a tale, a fleeting face,
Reality scattered in time’s embrace.
The music wails, a discordant plea,
A symphony born of entropy.
No rhythm to guide, no end in sight,
Only the weightless, eternal flight.
And still the circus spins its tale,
A cosmic jest, a fragile frail.
No applause, no final bow,
Just weightless dancers lost in the now.
Haikus:
Endless trapeze arcs,
No ground beneath, only air,
Dreams dissolve mid-flight.
Mirrors fracture truth,
Faces flicker, fade, and blur,
What’s real disappears.
Painted smiles drift on,
Clowns juggle what they can’t hold,
Laughter turns to dust.
Gravity undone,
The circus spins in the void,
Time is the tightrope.
Internet service on the laptop via iPhone. A little slow, but even the phone service is not to good here in my room.