Kaiden Blake

New free-write:

The gravel and sky had befriended one another. After concluding the regular patrol duty rotation, I found myself walking on air. I was seven years old, and a simple blue sky had meant more to me at that ripe age than it dare mean to me now. Clear skies were always level playing fields; no interruptions in my train of thought, no obstruction to point my finger at. Literal and figurative meanings had meshed into one, resuming the role of adaptation. Life demands a constant casting call for the role of the fittest; dramas dripping with dopamine, warding away the fiend.

I suppose I never thought I would exist during the same moment lions had begun to tame their masters. A circus is meant to be filled with gallant atrocities waiting for a flesh-filled audience to devour them with their eyes and vocal chords. Nowadays, the stands are used as balance beams while contractors scream infidelities from tightropes. From outside the tent, all living creatures are the same species yearning to relinquish their plastic confines.

A circus tent is similar to that of a ward. Padded walls and pin-stripes to offer a diversion. A separation. Though the division is successful at mockery, it is merely a fool beneath another layer of separation.

My tantrums had caused rainstorms, and I quickly learned nearly everything in life comes full-circle.