The circus

He was surrounded by faces distorted in laughter. A melancholic happiness seeped the whole place. Children were clapping and clowns were playing fools. Bright balloons floated in the air, dazzling and wicked. The lowly remembered, the lowly forgotten, just as they have always been.

Lazy applause rang out all around and crawled into his ears, mixed with the sweet getaway of loud obnoxious music.

He was out of place yet felt right at home. An emotion was raining, sending lightening bolts of icicles through his skeleton, confusing his senses and eating at his mind. A throbbing nerve spoke of a headache. An evilness slowly unwound inside, like a slumbering giant hungry for death.

All he could feel was pain. It was in his soul and span out like the tentacles of a sea monster to every limb. He tried to take a deep breath but little air found its way to his lungs. His fingers and toes became limp as the colors around flowed into each other, becoming a surreal portrait of his soul.

An outcast, hated and discarded. There was no way he could be part of the circus when all that was inside him was the blackness that overtook him, like spreading, climbing vines through his soul.

A large smiling face jumped right in front of him. It seemed like a dislocated head. The clown had an everlasting smile of makeup. Wild hair full of the broken dreams of hundreds of children and the slumber of adults.

He looked around the circus, looked at the colors, looked at the faces and finally at the clown, then he cried.

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