Alegría

I don't like Cirque du Soleil. It makes me think of disturbing things.

I don't see it as a normal art company comprising normal human beings. No. Cirque du Soleil is an unearthly realm where everyone is talented (they jump! they bend! they fly!). The inhabitants of the Cirque do no accept people who don't clap, who don't laugh at their classic, insipid humor. Thus, they kill them in the most pintoresque ways. It's so colorful, blood becomes yet another hue on their grotesquely flawless faces. I cannot describe the procedures.

I'm scared. I did not smile when the clowns gazed intently at an abandoned rope. The men who fly and the girl who bends have come back, they stand around my helpless body. I see their doll-like faces staring at me. The singer with the crystal antennae is howling nonsense with her ragged, yet clean voice. It hurts. They hurt.

Silence. Their china faces melt into play-doh smiles. The audience breaks into a hysterical applause. The act is done. The deed is done. The outcast is dead.