The Hungry Circus Clown

Written and Presented by Miguel A Hernandez

I keep having these dreams: thoughts of eccentric writing and of the modern day 21st century success. Lucid dreams keep me awake as I type and type away, uncertain of when the ending calls. But I write till these precious little fingers bleed out. Yes reader, dark and wicked fantasies plague and infect my head. They creep up somewhere at around a quarter past 12 am, but I forbid you not to share with anyone (besides a small circle of influences perhaps), because if you do: then I might have to kill you – and I don’t mean kill in the literal sense, but rather kill (K-I-L-L) – to make you unalive for a second and bring you into a state of ponder and into the deep psychological hell that Is the torture of the mind). Quarantine and social measures serve no purpose against the wickedness of the mind.

Keep me from writing. Will you keep me from writing? I beg of you. Please, pry my cold fingers off the keyboard; contain the spread of ink from my pen as it flows and burns through from page to page. I will tell you that history had it right: The mantra, the axiom, the stereotype of the starving artist is real. I have not eaten in six days and It’s this intense desire to melt away the flesh with every churn of high levels of acidic bile that remains within me.

So, tell me, will you stop me? Many have tried, all have failed.

The desire yearns

Kill me, it says.

Feed me, it insist.

I simply cannot. I begrudge the pettiness of the fool who falls into false illusions of mirages in the sand dunes of the sahara, walking barefoot to insure his survival. Tell me, does he stop? [….] because in the name of economic pursuit: I cannot.

I write until my fingers bleed out.

What will satisfy this intense desire? The deep pangs; the insatiable hunger? A measly cheeseburger? Surely not.

You offer me a cheeseburger, because the sight of a starving soul disturbs you. Eat it, you tell me. Eat it. Why? because I’ve not eaten for days and you wouldn’t want to see me starve? *I laugh uncontrollably as I slap away your cheeseburger* Call me a fool, call me a clown (a clown I am), but I refuse to put on a circus of consumption for you just to satisfy your demented altruistic, cancerous and empathetic side. Grow up! I refuse to pander to that part of your psyche: by eating what amounts to a clump of additives, manufactured protein and an insult to quality meat, just to ameliorate the feelings you may have of me starving. What am I a clown to you? Yes?

Well, welcome to the reality circus!

Hide, jump, laugh, cry.

Eat, eat, eat, eat. It’s a never ending consumption for you! Let the circus clown entertain, but never starve! I will trade the cheeseburgers, onion rings, and buffalo wings you bring for a spanking brand new pair of stomps 10x my size and a bucketful of cheap makeup just to mask the tears away! Food serves me no purpose – just mask it away: all the deep pain, pangs of depression and addictive suicidal thoughts on half a pound of makeup and end it all by dancing the sorrows away with clown shoes 5 times my size. Dance, jump, cry, laugh, and continue eating! But when all is said and done: write till the fingers bleed out. Patience is a virtue.

But I am neither patient, nor virtuous. So you will see me starve.

Hungry, I am. A starving artist I am not.

So, you can take the cheeseburger and your ketchup, along with those beer battered onion rings, and cayenne dipped buffalo wings and stick it. I bite the head off of snakes, before I take a bite into your virtuous cheeseburgers. I understand your marketing tactics they will not work and will never work. I get the gimmick.

So before you consider bringing me any of your pity food, consider this:

Talk is cheap, but so is a bottle of Vodka.

Understand, these dreams come and they speak to me in my sleep. They burrow deep underneath the surface of the skin, until they sink into the lungs and cause respiratory damage. They claw into the spine and mutilate the skin.

It’s not the hunger that’s going to kill me,

it’s the pain of regret.

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