Visit One: The Circus in Mania

The moment I step onto the fairground, the whole place seems to buzz. It’s like the air is alive, every color pulsing, practically vibrating with energy. I feel it in my skin, my veins, this thrill shooting straight to my heart. The big tent—red and white stripes rippling in the breeze—looks massive, alive, like it’s breathing, pulling me toward it. I can barely keep myself from running.

Laughter, screams, applause, the snap of a popcorn bag—it all sounds like music, a symphony made just for me. The scent of cotton candy is so thick I can taste it, sweet and dizzying. Everywhere I look, lights spin and whirl, brighter than stars, flashing pink and yellow, looping through the sky. I’m floating above it all, somehow bigger than myself, like the night’s made for me alone.

When I finally push inside, it’s like stepping into magic. The performers, the acrobats—they defy gravity, flipping and spiraling like they’ve unlocked some secret that no one else knows. I can’t look away. The clowns are grinning, tumbling over each other, and I swear I’m right there with them, one of them, tumbling through a world of endless joy. I’ve never felt this connected, this alive.

I pull out my phone, needing to capture it, needing to save every flash of color and shadow. I feel like I could burst if I don’t share this with someone, with everyone. I want to throw my arms around the people next to me, climb into the ring, swing from the trapeze. This place is everything, and right now, so am I.

Visit Two: The Circus in Depression

The circus tent looms ahead, but it just looks…sad. Huge and empty, like some faded creature hunched against the night sky. I don’t know why I’m even here. The colors seem washed out, like a kid’s old toy left in the rain. I want to turn around, go back home, but I’m here, and maybe it’s better than sitting alone in the dark. Or maybe it’s not. I don’t even know.

Inside, the laughter feels sharp, grating, like it’s mocking me. The kids are shrieking and laughing, and the vendors are shouting, voices bouncing off the walls. Every sound seems to stab into me. I hunch my shoulders, clutch my coat tighter, wishing I could just fade into the shadows.

I watch the acrobats, but their movements seem stiff, forced, like they’re just going through the motions. I can’t believe I thought this place was magical. Now it feels so fake, so hollow. The clowns are supposed to be funny, but they look like painted ghosts, grotesque and strange. Why would anyone choose this life, a life of pretending? I feel like I’m watching something ugly, something I should’ve stayed far away from.

The show drags on and on, every minute stretching into something unbearable. I check my watch, then check it again, desperate to leave. When I finally step outside, it’s a relief. The lights, the sounds—they fade into the background, like a bad memory already slipping away. All I want is to be far from here, somewhere quiet, where I can let the night swallow me whole.