The Pierrot

"I watched and acted wordlessly

As piece by piece you performed your story

Moving through an unknown past

Dancing at the funeral party"

-- Robert Smith: The Cure,  The Funeral Party from the album Faith (1981).

 

 

Parrish, Maxfield. The Lantern-Bearers. 1908. Arkansas.

    Flaunted and forged by man-made constellations, lanterns will ring about my feet -- the ones who jump, skip and dance tirelessly -- to never cease the twinkle of amazement in a bystander's perception. Hours are dragged by scarves of incomprehensible magic, that is merely littered dreams and decayed smiles caked with painted-on contentment; see the markings on my face? 

   As you swoon to the extravagant fillers of virulent sweets, the confetti that circumscribes and precipitates around the band of clowns will only then shimmer the dullness of performative life. I am meant to bear a life liberated of hyper-vigilance but impression is my sculptor and God forbid I defy any chance by the abuse of a creator who has given me a chance at uttering a breath. Sometimes, I wish living wasn't a career path brushed by the harsh cold of getting-by but the hold of experiencing and fully enveloping one's weightless love in the person whom they fully sacrifice themself to -- maybe the life of a performer is not about loving but rather the sharpness of selling their entirety for personal entertainment.