clockwork circus

It takes a simple idea to take root in the mind, or at least in mine. Bipolar is the soil, and the delusion quickly takes root. I heard of a place, potentially fictional, but whether it’s real or not, it’s called Clockwork Circus.

There is mutual respect: follow the rules, respect them, and you’re safe. You’ll return to where you belong, safe and sound. My free will, however, allows me to either be obedient or defiant and curious. I need an escape. My life depends on it.

The simple idea that has taken root has consumed me for years. It wakes me in the night and cuts my days short. No one else shares it, and my imminent isolation encroaches every day, right before your eyes, and you turn a blind one all the same. What purpose does the circus really serve? It only brings awareness to more choices, to another dichotomy, as if bipolar wasn’t enough.

But does leaving the circus fix anything?

Everyone here is smiling. Everything is technicolor, and they are all polite at best.

Don’t remove your mask. Don’t answer if you hear your name called.

I already wear a mask in reality, and if my name is called, it’s usually bad news. Much like my real life, I’m itching to break the rules. If I did so more often, could I find relief, temporarily or otherwise?

This place advertises happiness if you stick to the guidelines. So does bipolar, except no matter how much therapy and medication I receive, I will always live with bipolar symptoms. Just like this circus, and just like my handicap, there is undiscovered beauty, but something is deeply off here.

I’m fucked either way.

So if you find I’ve gone—not in body, but in mind—I’m at the Circus, where nothing is free. My memories are fading. I keep my mask on, and I’m trapped in the hall of mirrors, trying to swap with another Kailyn who can do better in my reality than I ever could.

Besides the point.

The Clockwork Circus is an abandoned theme park of sorts that could be accessed through a dream, or potentially a nightmare. It’s full of carnival rides and frozen-faced carnies. Entrance times are between 2:31 A.M. and 2:49 A.M.

Perfect for me, because I am in a twilight state of Valium or Klonopin and a healthy dose of Trazodone. I wake up each night around these hours in a state of debilitating fear and despair.

The rides come at a cost, and it’s not of monetary value but something much more unforgiving.

Upon arrival, I’m told not to eat the ice cream because it erases memories. Of course, I’m served a double scoop. I’ve seen enough. I’ve seen it all, and my memories are of little consequence to me. As the tide rises, it’s about time to leave. The real owners of this place are coming to collect.

Yet I’m tempted to stay.

As the true owners of the circus loom and shadows are cast far across the grounds, my time is up, and my nineteen minutes of bliss have come to an end. I’ve always been drawn to the dark, the depraved, and the forbidden. I begin to think this is the escape I’ve been praying for. It’s somewhere between death and eternal suspension. As I arrive for the first time, there’s a euphoric dread. Nothing I’m not used to after a ketamine infusion and a couple of Valium. Everything here is so slow and hypnotic, and it’s disconcerting. Although I’m a tad apprehensive, my intrigue overcomes the sensation, and I go deeper into the attraction.

Everyone here knows something I don’t, but I don’t ask questions, as that was rule number one.

I feel impending horror—a dichotomy I have navigated my entire life.

How is this place so bad?

I’ll leave you with this.

I don’t want to be a part of the circus show. I want to be invited. An extended stay, until I return with a fresh memory slate and new awareness.

Between substance abuse and a lack of rhyme or reason, I shall await my invitation with bated breath.

Is this my construct of heaven? Hell?

Either way, by way of dream or nightmare or self-induced psychosis, it shall be.