His body had been catapulting and he’d been spinning ever since. He had erupted from the ground and began twirling through the air. Under the puffy, blinding clouds, he spun. He had resisted the oncoming force instead of forming to it and it launched him to the sky; now, he would not conform to the rules of gravity, it seemed. His arms grew farther from his body with each twirl and his legs seemed to trail behind him like a string to a kite. He spun onward.
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He held his own audience; they watched from various places, mouths in an “O” of astonishment and worry. As the audience grew, the faces of newcomers seemed to melt away. It mattered not to him, the world was almost gone now and what was left swirled about him and blended together.
The sound of cymbals crashed repeatedly with the fall of tiny slivers of glass. They broke the isolating, smothering silence as they scattered across the ground. They thought the pieces would never land, they thought he would never land. It seemed as if he would hang here forever, a reminder to the finder that the neglect of a moment can end them all. He twirled onward, but he no longer defied gravity and the thought of a hanging statue quickly vanished from the minds of the onlookers just as quickly as the reminder that defined it.
He spun but began the descent of his arc. The audience had grown a great deal and was still growing; they stared on with looks of disbelief and horror. They were aware of the fact that they were completely helpless, but rippling and shimmering, just below the surface, was the fact. It underlined their very being and defined their inhumanity and humanity all at once; their blood was thick with the twisted pleasure of the spectacle displayed
Slivers of sick grins hid below the terrified faces, and the corners heightened with the fall of the man. Refused by the clouds, the ground brutally accepted him. Shrieks and screams sounded, mortified, but with a hint of satisfaction. A reminder, wastefully squandered on the forgetful and forgotten.
Now, the two unmanned and unmovable spotlights, cast a pale glow that congealed over the contorted corpse. The remainder of the container of human life, with all its trivial nothings composed and combined into everything. Now, the heap that collapsed limply on this blacktop stage was a monument with its message lost among those who need it most.
“This is you.” It screamed at the deaf, but they cared not. Too immersed in their sickness, they were quick to ignore and soon to forget. They are the lost. They are the inhumane. They are the human. They are us.
But, we are too thrilled by the final performance of one and we are blind that we are just in the waiting line for our encores. Soon, it will be our turn and we will be forgotten and watched with a pleasure that is rooted deep inside the swarming, hidden depths of the human mind. Soon, we will be the next dancer. Twirling, spinning…Falling…Dying.