Bright light floods my pores, finding cracks to be filled in by pliable triangle sponges dipped in liquid white, laying a foundation for my face. Long slender fingers of red lipstick trace my mouth, defining my mood. I can't help but smile, because I can't help but smile when I get to paint it on.
Clowns have that liberty.
My name is Sunshine, if the neon wig and billowy pants hung on springy suspenders did not give it away completely. Though you will never hear it from my mouth, I am mute, you see. My voice is the laughter of children's joy as they grab a gloved hand and spill in dizzying circles around me. Big red shoes flip flop as my legs pump in outrageous movements, matching the rhythm of my hands, casting a spell over them as I mime my story.
I am the center of their universe.
Bumbling off the stage with a see ya later wave, the shadows encroach with each swipe of the alcohol pad, as I transform back to me. Slipping out no one gives notice of the invisible man with the duffel bag as they chatter with excitement making plans to grow up to be a clown. Maybe its just the make up we crave, to transform us to who we hoped we would be.
Not knowing who we are, we try to become something we are not.
The spotlight of the face we create gives warmth like a dying sun, while in the recesses of our soul, we find our identity has been stolen, by our own attempts to manufacture the intimacy we all crave. If we never learn to love ourselves, can we ever hope to really find it?
I was a clown once.
Perhaps I still am at times.
When I give in to it's...