like Miss Lala at the Cirque Fernando: suspended above
a terrifying drop, as we reach for the impossible
(which has to be possible) under the warm sunset ceiling
of our current predicament. We could always shimmy down
that inviting lifeline to where we started from, but what good
would that do us? And it’s too late anyhow. We know we should
have followed a wiser course of action; as the white-face clown
sheds a false tear on our behalf, to acknowledge the feeling,
which is genuine enough. But it’s much too late to stop now.
Even if it is death-defying, we still must be trying
as hard as we can, because the alternative doesn’t bear
contemplating. Hating it will get us nowhere. Only Love
can save us, from the horror that this circus gave us. Wave us
goodbye to La-La Land, and let’s take firm hold of the tiller:
there’s a storm that’s brewing, and it’s going to be a killer.
We must steer the course boldly between Charybdis and Scylla
– and we might, we just might make it through by the skin of our teeth.