Dance Show Satire

Circuses are more than just an extravagant evening rendezvous. The exhilaration gained from entire families’ valiant works a hair’s breadth away from injury, with not a net or harness to cradle their shortcomings, is hardly matched. One could not imagine a greater feat of merriment if left to their own devices and for good reason. That is to say the waves of eyes darting towards the centerpiece incite no lesser feeling of chagrin. The tides of townspeople, dressed to the nines with only a scaffold to support their boisterous japery bind the crowd, their purposes ultimately served in total. The stage is lowered and in its place is the dirty steps of clowns and acrobats. Tents coil and breathe with the act, a complex web of ropes and steeled

Chaos is a two-sided coin. The first is a shining, hallowed place within an all-encompassing sense of direction. The second is a haze of comparisons and missteps. A different language is spoken behind the curtain. The show continues for the rats and loose change. Tired eyes stare into an assaulting vortex of stripes, their patterns dazed and foreign even when bound by the most cherished acquaintance. On the other side of the mirror, though only rumored in low tones of uncertainty, candy floss can turn the strongest of stomachs, rotten teeth still bloom within the cracks of vigilance. The performers are but a star against the ever-expanding vastness of celestial residents, them in themselves a reflection of something deeper. There, oddities are strung closer than muscles against flesh. Who 's-it’s and what 's-its color the vocabulary of stagehands. A curtain partitions them far apart from those meddlesome onlookers and pairs of eyes and their disposal. No knives, but the daggers stared are present with twice the edge. Thousand-eyed monstrosities follow me, freaks of my own creation. As such, my steps tread heavier and the lights burn brighter against my back. The pockets you find me in are either flooding with presence or are abandoned depending on who I present myself to be. The only games played involve underestimation of my own abilities, tests of courage

It fades and appears when it sees fit. Some would characterize this as a drive to better myself, others would call it obsessive in the same way rehearsed words spill from a painted face, dolled up and shiny but still feature a lacked sort of sincerity. The masks I wear vary, but they ultimately serve the same purpose of setting aside my true emotions to press on. Lesser minds could decipher the trick, that it is all an act, that my idiosyncrasies are the furthest possible alternative from what most come to know as “natural ability” and even then they decline, because we are one in the same. People are no different. Reaching for something greater than ourselves is in our nature. It seems that working together is our only hope if we desire the slightest bit of progression. This concept is not as alien as it may seem, as it is present t I am a circus. I am flexibility in the harshest conditions. A menagerie cages my emotions, tightly bound by the metal bars of the box. The acts vary in number and denomination, significance gently cradled into each calculated movement. A tightrope walker’s gaze falls to the box. I am her too. In private moments, new venues headline. Foreign and familiar work together in perfect harmony to create a memorable, if fleeting, experience. Eventually, we will have to take a bow and retreat back into the earth, but until then, it is as those in