- the circus arrives without warning. no announcements precede it. it is simply there, when yesterday it was not.
- the finest of pleasures are always the unexpected ones.
- they seek each other out, these people of such specific like mind. they tell off how they found the circus, how those first few steps were like magic. like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars
- it's as if there is a love and loss at the same time, together in a kind of beautiful pain.
- “i would have written you, myself, if i could put down in words everything i want to say to you. a sea of ink would not be enough.' 'but you built me dreams instead.”
- we lead strange lives, chasing our dreams around from place to place.
- it is difficult to see a situation for what it is when you are in the midst of it. it is too familiar. too comfortable.
- i have been surrounded by love letters you two have built each other for years, encased in tents.
- i am tired of trying to hold things together that cannot be held. trying to control what cannot be controlled. i am tired of denying myself what I want for fear of breaking things i cannot fix. they will break no matter what we do.
- “do you remember all of your audiences?" marco asks. "not all of them," celia says. "but i remember the people who look at me the way you do." "what way might that be?" "as though they cannot decide if they are afraid of me or they want to kiss me." " i am not afraid of you," marco says.
- but beneath the starry sky, the field that stretches out below his tree is empty, as though nothing has ever occupied the space but grass and leaves and fog.
- only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink.
- “i made a wish on this tree years ago," marco says. "what did you wish for?" bailey asks. marco leans forward and whispers in bailey's ear. "i wished for her.”
- only hours ago, she was certain. now, sitting in this cave of lightly perfumed silk, what had seemed constant and unquestionable feels as delicate as the steam floating over her tea. as fragile as an illusion.
- "magic," the man in the grey suit repeats, turning the word into a laugh. "this is not magic. this is the way the world is, only very few people take the time to stop and note it. look around you," he says, waving a hand at the surrounding tables. "not a one of them even has an inkling of the things that are possible in this world, and what's worse is that none of them would listen if you attempted to enlighten them. they want to believe that magic is nothing but clever deception, because to think it real would keep them up at night, afraid of their own existence."
- it is important, someone needs to tell those tales. when the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. there's magic in that. it's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. from the mundane to the profound. you may tell a that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. that tale will move them and drive them and who knows that they might do because of it, because of your words. that is your role, your gift.
- you think, as you walk away from les cirque des rêves and into the creeping dawn, that you felt more awake within the confines of the circus. you are no longer quite certain which side of the fence is the dream.
jan 25 2021 ∞
jan 26 2021 +