Clowns

I wrote this a few years ago. I would like to say that I have changed since, that I have realized I am not alone in this world, or that my restless soul has found a place to lay its head... but more often than not I am still at this place. My condition is that of humanity. I love my God, I know that he relishes in me... and yet my spirit is that of something fallen. It lies in mud much of the time, wishing for the newness of the sun to cover its dry and barren ground... I have tasted this love, this warmth... I have tasted it enough to believe. But I do not deny that I am human. That I doubt. That I lie on the hard earth and cry because I don't understand. To pretend that I am not this is to deny the spirit I have been given... and so, although I wrote this some time ago, it still tugs at the deepness of my heart and says "share"...

I am awake and it is dark in the room.

It’s not as though I had ever planned to lay in the middle of a withered field with my arms spread out and my eyes coursing with tears. One never plans for these things to happen. I have been thrown to the ground because of my emotional pain for the first time. Many times I can recall being flung to the ground in fits of laughter. This has happened because during those moments in time I loved my life, loved myself, and loved the attention born unto me. But never have I fallen as hard as this, or so my memory is tricking me into thinking. When one is filled with laughter, more often than not, they are surrounded by those that love them, unless they are crazy and the straight jacket has already been put on and people keep asking “why do you laugh so much? Are you crazy?” And one begins to wonder what makes us crazy or not, especially because I would never ask a straight jacketed person whether they are crazy or not. Would you? Nevertheless, at moments like this, when I seem to fall the hardest, I realize I am alone, looking into the grey sky, and the clowns have stopped laughing at me. My mind is a terrible place. I pick at the grass poking into the back of my neck and wonder if the clowns had been there, would I have even come to the conclusion that has wrenched my soul? I would have probably been distracted by their big feet and red noses. But they would also have their own tears painted on, and then I would have at least felt like I wasn’t alone, even though my tears were real and theirs, for realistic purposes, truly are painted on. But at least we would have the odd superficiality with each other that makes the world go round. And I would be able to not think about being alone. They would try and make me laugh.
A man walks his dog beside me and I mentally will him, the dog that is, to not come and sniff me. I realize that I probably look dead. But then I remember that I’m not, because I hear the sounds of my tears, a symphony created for me, by me, to free me. And the big sky is still grey, although quite blurry and it seems to be closing in. I had the same feeling four nights ago when I was taking a bath and felt like I was going to go down the drain. I felt rather small and wondered what it would be like to be an elf that could actually travel through the pipes anytime he wanted. A read a book when I was eight about an entire world made simply for elves, by elves. They had a Ferris wheel and lanterns. Imagine? But wait, the man simply walks by me as if he always sees a girl lying in a field with her arms outstretched and her tears smearing her own clown paint. Maybe he has lain here before and thinks nothing of it. He knows I will eventually get up because I have to. And of course, because just as the world is full of loss and suffering and love, something that will never change, so too does the dog feel his need to sniff a complete stranger.

I am lost. The winter storms have arrived.