writingbrussels

On a line, a boy not older than eight years, of a bright round face and a mane of thick black hair balances some twenty meters above the ground under a circus dome. He is walking, jumping and turning, supported by thin, almost invisible safety ropes. The night of the spectacle everything will be in place, but the ropes not. The hall beneath will be full of people. Anna knows the boy is a character of her favourite fantasy novel, The Night Circus, she is carrying the novel in her heart even in sleep, its velvety darkness, its silvery light. In the novel, the boy has a name, and he has a twin sister, right now, in her dream, she cannot not remember the name of either of them. Never mind, he is here to tell her everything is just right. Even if it does not seem so, everything is so very right. As if to prove that, his dark-haired head bounces again, he performs another loop, his eyes glisten as he lands safely on the line and gets steady. He is marching the line surely, and even when he sometimes loses the balance, he uses the strong back and core and arm muscles to swish himself back, and the ropes are there, in any case, but will not be – the night of the show. He is communicating without words, though initially, they were the words of the novel that created him for her. Everything will be fine, even if she, Anna, never gathers the courage to walk out of this house… Continue reading →