The tightrope walker

"I am above the earth now. I am no longer upright, to be knocked against and damaged. All is soft, and bending. (...) Out of me now my mind can pour." - Virginia Woolf

The tightrope walker performs a sad little show on the fragile wire of her life.

Her hollowed eyes never look down these days, and a weak melody keeps her compagny as she drags her weary body forward.

With her earbuds in, ghostly dancer floats in the air, blissfully oblivious. A little pirouette and a bow with no one to clap : her audience is long gone and she couldn’t care less.

A melancholic smile and it starts again for this lovely corpse full of dusty dreams. Too careless for vertigo, what a walking tragedy.

A familiar, beloved voice rises in the distance, snapping her out of her reverie.

How long has she been this way ?

“Mom ?”

Frail ballerina straightens up and desperately searches for her. Nothing’s protecting her delicate ears anymore, and she jumps at the sound of her own voice.

She’s never lost her balance before, so what would happen if she did ?

She sees a woman in her fifties but in her stubborn little head, her mom is still thirty-six, not a day older. The sand in the hourglass didn’t...

No.

It’s

not

possible.

Her chest suddenly hurts and she inspects herself, confused. Did someone shoot her ? When’s the last time she felt her body at all ? There’s no blood. None.

She digs in the swamps of her mind for a memory, any memory. Something from another life. Nothing. Peter Pan must have come for her.

Another look and… Whew. The lovely blue-eyed lady’s gone. It was all just an illusion.

Little Miss Denial inhales deeply and takes a hesitant step forward again. Everything’s too bright, too loud, too... too much, but the show must go on.

Her thoughts take flight and she fancies herself a knight, with the strongest armor in-

Who are these people now ? She was alone, alone, alone.

Safe.

Empty.

How long has it been this way ?

Tears. Frowns. Smiles. What strange mime artists !

No, she recognizes them. They look like her. Distorted mirrors, taller, so much taller and so much more beautiful than she could ever be. She almost trips over her feet trying to get to them.

What do they want from her ? They look like they need her help. She should help. Right ? Isn’t it her whole job ?

But they’re books open right in the middle, and she feels like she missed too many chapters. She swears she was there when they got their names. Would things be different if-

Poof. Gone too.

She liked it better when her heart wasn’t beating anymore.

She closes her eyes and tries to create another story. Stay here. Don’t go back just yet.

Perhaps this time she can be a siren luring men to their deaths. Perhaps this time she can be a sorceress with formidable powers. Perhaps this time she can be a normal girl who’s able to-

When’s the last time she visited her grandfather’s grave ?

Wait

When’s the last time she held them when they wept ?

WAIT

When’s the last time she raised her voice without falling apart ?

STOP

It’s not her fault, everything kills her. She can’t go back, an earthquake would rattle her cotton bones and then what would be left of her ?

She didn’t ask to be blotting paper, to be flickering light.

One open window and the world takes it as an invitation to burst through her doors and violently invade her.

The smallest things pierce her soft skin and she disolves into nothing.

Invisibility is survival.

Anesthesia is survival.

How much longer will she hide ?

Adapt and toughen up, you coward. The only illusion is you.

Come back to life and let it hurt.

But why does it have to hurt at all ?

You are made for peace, you brave, gentle girl.

You don’t have to be in pain anymore.

Finally, she loses her balance and she

…

…

…

Thanks for reading me,

Marie.

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