Trapeze Artist

My life is like a circus.
Some days, I am a trapeze artist, who delights effortlessly, graceful and uncaring above the petty affairs of plebeian land-dwellers. On those days, I dream. I see beyond the obtrusive technicolor big top and into whatever skies I imagine loom above. As a trapeze artist, anything is possible because the future of a trapeze artist is a fluid, delicate thing--not a grand gesture on a solid stone foundation, but a floating gauze of wisp built on nothing but the wind. Soaring above bagatelles, one day, I could look around and find myself surrounded by cerulean sky and pacific clouds, no longer bound to the confines of the big top, free of the constraints of quotidian details. Each space between the trapezes is a heartbeat moment of sublime possibility, when the wind threatens to veer sharply, when the sheer number of futures I could experience threatens to overwhelm my solitary present.
Some days, I am the dancing bear, who wears funny hats to dance for pennies. On those days, I float--not nimbly like the trapeze artist, not guilelessly like dandelion seeds or spider silk, but
On these days, I am servant to none, master to all. The trapeze artist is too lost in possibility to consider the probable. The dancing bear is too lost in surviving the today to contemplate the tomorrow. The juggler is too lost in the rapture of the imminent disaster to cogitate the disaster. But I, the ringmaster, am not lost at all. I know the circus like nobody else does, intimately acquainted with every dust particle to ever float in the filtered sunlight, with each each thread woven into the fabric of my life. To be ringmaster is to have the clarity to see past, present, and future dispassionately, the certainty to decide whether to stay tomorrow or to go today, and the command to run the