The Pagliacci complex

The Calgary sun feels lighter; it also puts less pressure on one’s head. Though, the cold is a different story to which her skin overreacts.

Her hands have at least aged by five years. She watches how the skin of her scalp plays with the dust in the sunlight. It somewhat feels like her perception is crumbling way. When you look too closely you get caught in a bubble, she thinks. And this is where she wants her mind to be. Right now. If you have been outside for too long you will need sometime to learn to get back in – without breaking the bubble that is. Sleep is not enough, neither is Yoga – but songs in minor keys or Oscar Wilde quotes – inspirations for the fiction addict, who only pursues a healthy channel of release to avoid choking on his or her own inability to find a fucking way to deal with things.

You tell her to to hang in there in silence, but it might get so loud inside the head that she starts acting in a Pagliacci inspired play in front of people that are unable to see beneath the surface and laugh.

Make people laugh or make them question.

You’re surely talented in at least one of them.

You save yourself some questioning by throwing quotes by Carl Jung or F. Nietzsche at them. Let them think what they want. They don’t know you…

This is when it’s coldest. And you forget that the sun won’t always be there to enable your eyes to see the little things.

And then the skin grows older again. Under the make-up.

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