Send In The Clowns

It feels like the circus has come to town. I watch amused as politicians court every dame and damsel, especially the ones that can sing and dance to Wowowee, and seeing them magically change their masks, as they jump from one courtier to another. Everything is a big drama and all I behold, merely players. With the impending deadline for filing of COCs, the last few days has been especially grand. Fanfare, a glitz of color, superstars and an abundance of dazzling confetti. Seems like I am watching Moulin Rouge, a fantastic world built out of cunning and filth.

A wealth of tricks, blinding lights that razzle-dazzle, everything a lavish show. There are those that are masters of the circus. They have built up a wardrobe of costumes, and they can be anything they want to be as long as the crowd applauds: clowns, puppets, the poor boy who can fly, heir of a great hero, even someone back from the dead. But, when the lights dim and the circus is over, you see it was nothing but an illusion. And then they begin strategizing the next grand show when they can do magic, charm the crowd, and sweet-talk them that this bliss is real. I haven’t had a decent stomach since the time I stepped foot in politics.

There must be truth to the saying: “I cannot stomach it.” Because I truly cannot. And the sad thing is, as much as I hate it, I cannot escape it. And it’s not just me. We live here. And we are all guilty for living our sweet lives, separated by our white picket fences, and pretending that the circus next door is not happening. But we forget that we breathe the same air, even share the same sewage. And we cannot escape it. We will breathe smog if the circus pollutes our atmosphere, and all the crap will eventually find its way into our homes. Even worse, we oftentimes enjoy the glitz, make merry and forget our troubles.

And I know we are all better than these. How can we cloak a massacre in fanfare, color, superstars and razzle-dazzle? Surely we cannot dangle a curtain over that cramped house under the bridge where citizens walk on all fours and take turns sleeping? And guess what, having spent millions to put on the show, the circus troupe won’t be able to afford rescue boats the next time there’s a flood. What’s behind the mask? Behind the curtains? Behind all the dancing and hand-holding in the air? Who’s pulling the strings? Aren’t we tired of reruns? The show need not go on. So please, look beyond the glitter.

Contributing Writer: Paula Aberasturi

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