It is said that actions speak louder than words.
Sometimes I wonder about that.
Behind the glimmering illusion of our glittering lives is the gritty grinding of our souls trying to stretch immortality out of these hopelessly finite bodies.
I am not sure that could be put into actions. Not precisely, at least.
Yet people speak a lot, saying very little. More and less than they realise.
Sometimes I wonder about that.
We are candles masquerading as stars, but every now and then, we do something that compares to the fervent burning of celestial bodies.
Circus performers understand this. They practice a litany of bizarre movements. To anyone else, it looks like madness. Then, suddenly, after years of diligence and with some choreography, these otherwise strange practices coalesce into fantastical displays that make even the most unremarkable businessman murmur, “Oooh.”
Control is important. It is the only we can ever achieve what I have just detailed or anything remotely like it. And it is not just our carnival. It is paper and paint and song and the eruption of bleeding hearts in every medium.
Nothing says ‘control’ to me like words.
Yet we stumble, butcher, stitch, shatter and throw them about. Think of it: people tearing out pieces of their soul and giving it away at random.
Sometimes I wonder about that.
Here we are, moths surrounded by infinite flames. But it is not a merciful gout of fire for us. It is a leisurely burning.
This evident fact eludes us all. It quietly excuses itself, but it never quite leaves. It lives in the corner of our bedrooms at night. It watches us from the slit of our wardrobe. Whispers from the leaves of an evening walk in autumn.
I make friends with this silence.
There I find something worth listening to.
But I am not better than anybody else. Sitting up here with the wind and my dancing hat jingling its bells by its own volition, I am warm with the lantern fire. I watch the crowds and take their tickets and smile as they fade to ash.
This late in the evening, twilight covers me in its cloak.
Confused guests look up at me, not knowing what to make of the jester sitting in the lanterns. They see the scarlet motley, the fool’s cap, but I can’t help but notice: they look like they’re watching a ghost.
I stare back.
In the mirrors of their pupils, I barely recognise myself.
I am still trying to find the words to explain what made me this way.
Sometimes I wonder about that.
Sometimes I wonder if you can bear it.
Art by Astrid Grim.
