I Think That's A Hallmark

I Don;t Think There's Anything Wrong With Being A Dreamer. There Is Not. But Dreams Have Ways Of Turning Into Nightmares.

Our Instructors Do Not Understand How It Is. To Be Bound To Someone In Such A Way. They Are Too Old, Too Out Of Touch With Their Emotions. They No Longer Remember What It Is To Live And Breathe Within The World. They Think It Simple To Pit Any Two People Against Each Other. It Is Never Simple. The Other Person Becomes How You Define Your Life, How You Define Yourself. They Become As Necessary As Breathing. Then They Expect The Victor To Continue On Without That. It Would Be Like Pulling The Murray Twins Apart And Expecting Them To Be The Same. They Would Be Whole But Not Complete.

They Are Enthusiasts, Devotees. Addicts. Something About The Circus Stirs Their Souls, And They Ache For It When It Is Absent. They Seek Each Other Out, These People Of Such Specific Like Mind. They Tell Of How They Found The Circus, How Those First Few Steps Were Like Magic. Like Stepping Into A Fairy Tale Under A Curtain Of Stars… When They Depart, They Shake Hands And Embrace Like Old Friends, Even If They Have Only Just Met, And As They Go Their Separate Ways They Feel Less Alone Than They Had Before.

I Paint Very Messy. I Throw Paint Around. So When I Let Myself Do The Same Sort Of Thing With My Writing, And I Would Just Write And Write And Write And Revise, That's When I Found My Rhythm In Writing.

At The Center, Where A Cuckoo Bird Would Live In A More Traditional Timepiece, Is The Juggler. Dressed In Harlequin Style With A Grey Mask, He Juggles Shiny Silver Balls That Correspond To Each Hour. As The Clock Chimes, Another Ball Joins The Rest Until At Midnight He Juggles Twelve Balls In A Complex Pattern. After Midnight The Clock Begins Once More To Fold In Upon Itself. The Face Lightens And The Clouds Return. The Number Of Juggled Balls Decreases Until The Juggler Himself Vanishes. By Noon It Is A Clock Again, And No Longer A Dream.