Listen, I know I have become unhinged, but as Phil Colin's said, "I don't care anymore. I don't care what you say. We never played by the same rules anyway.”
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In a single breath, the secrets of the cosmos are inhaled. Maturity sashays in on stiletto heels, blowing bubblegum bubbles of transcendence, popping superficial markers into lurid smears of fluorescent face paint.
It's a one-woman show of death-defying trapeze flips between the dingy inner circus tent and the glittering exterior big top, gasp-inducing evolutions sending spotlights slicing through the sawdust air.
The wide-eyed child clings to the barrel-chested strongman, tiny hands grasping at a world frothing with possibilities. Their desires emerge fully formed from the magician's sleeve, ravenous animals rippling with fascination, untainted by the ringmaster's whip. This innocent lion tamer oozes pure desire from every pore.
As we bumble down the garishly lit midway of life, gawking at sideshow oddities, our clean flesh becomes engraved with the tattoo needle of experience. The supple contours of our hearts become granite statues, chiseled expectations on weathered faces staring blankly. We abandon the daring young man on the flying trapeze and turn our gaze to the safety net below, wanting validation, wanting what we think we should want, not what we see. Success, money, pleasure–we lust after these paper tigers with insatiable greed.
Maturity then bursts from the cake, sending frosting flying, as we delight in the surprise inside. It is not about years or close encounters in the tunnel of love–it is about hacking through the funhouse mirrors with an axe to glimpse one's undistorted reflection. Returning to that primal honest desire, the still point in the spinning Roue-Cyr wheel, beyond the judgment of the audience. This is not wide-eyed innocence, but eyes even wider open in new understanding scanned by lasers of self-awareness.
Wanting what we see with our naked eyes and not through the lenses of expectation is a liberation. It frees us from unfulfilling desires manufactured by the culture industry. It lets us exit the consumerist maze into a clearing where we can taste flavors unenhanced. This return to purity provokes surprise and revolution when we stop chasing the mechanical rabbit around the greyhound track and just sit, present in ourselves.
Imagining this maturity–no longer reaching but being, focused inward not outward for fulfillment–is the promise of the center ring. In a world of constant spotlight arcs sweeping the stands, it takes courage to follow the lone spotlight shining a path back to the still point of simple presence. Only there can we can gain clear eyes to see our heart's desires without distraction and find for ourselves the greatest show on earth.
