Sunday 12 April 2015

The Circus

The Circus
Every time the three brass hands of the clock overlapped on the number 12, written in swirls of golden ink, every heart within the circus skipped a beat, an unnoticeable second breath.  The clock itself was a magnificent beauty, twisted pieces of gold, brass and sliver gently entwined surrounding the main body of the clock. Stars, the deepest shade of crimson placed abruptly in between the coiled mess, suddenly fading into the background. First they go unnoticed, but as you stand still in trance of the exquisiteness a mere clock can hold, you see the slightest piece of red peeking out through out the gloriously rich metallic colours. And that is when your sight changes, nothing is at all the same now and it never will be. That is also when you truly begin to comprehend the complexity behind the saying ‘Nothing is precisely what it seems', and you wonder how you could have been so ignorant to the everyday intricacies of life continuously controlled by magic. Or as you will come to call it enchantment. Then shifting the weight of your feet onto your toes, you pivot, turning back to the circus, accepting that once strange feeling to be the circus calling you back.  The instinctive feeling of comfort and belonging as soon as you pass the red line entering, entering the circus. Even though it seemed a mere line, the difference was buzzing within the air. And your step felt instantly lighter.