Journeys and Star Gazing

It’s Carnival Day, and the streets hum with strange music that seems to echo from the cracks in the cobblestones. The sailors sing tunes that rise and fall like waves, their voices rough and gentle, worn by salt and time. Ancient whores lean against faded railings, their sighs heavy with the weight of forgotten desires, watching a day that never ends roll out again like a ragged carpet.

Old men tip their hats to passing dogs and the shrieking children who dart between the stalls. Ladies in feathered boas throw blown kisses from their booths, winking at those who dare catch them. Somewhere in the crowd, a sky pilot—tall and solemn—wraps his arm around his lover’s shoulder, murmuring sweet equations, words of science, as they wander toward the looming shadow of the roller coaster.

“Hey! Hey! Don’t forget your sense of justice!” comes a call from a voice lost in the crowd. It’s Carnival Day, after all, a day for the topsy-turvy, a day where nothing is what it seems.

The ghost train rattles past, its lights flashing garish neon. Round and round, it goes, yet no one can hear the screams of the shadows within. You catch sight of the acrobats now, spinning and turning high in the air, their bodies dangling by invisible threads. You wonder what magic holds them up there—what spell, what curse—yet there’s not even a single hair to show the strain. Your head begins to turn, spinning in rhythm with the world around you, and you wonder what the clown is doing over there, grinning like he knows all the secrets you forgot.

You find yourself seated under the grand old hat, an enormous thing that arches above, draped like a night sky. Its great mast rises from the centre, a pillar of mystery that holds the curtain between this world and the stars. Looking up, you see them—stars peering down with distant curiosity, pinpricks of silver against the carnival’s blaze. Somewhere, you think, there might be a wishing well beneath this hat, deep and endless, catching all the silent hopes thrown up by this crowd.

You wander into the Topsy-Turvy House, tripping over invisible stairs and losing balance in rooms that slope and slide. The electric vibrations of the funhouse hum in your bones, a strange, tingling pulse that you can’t shake. Electronic zombies greet you, their eyes blank but somehow alive, watching you even as you look away.

The laughing clowns are waiting with wide mouths open, eager for you to throw your ball into their gaping grins. You do, and the ball tumbles down, but you lose track of it, forget where it went, though you wish—foolishly, perhaps—for the panda plush on the wall, a silly prize you’re sure will hold you tight.

Nearby, a bearded woman whirls like a storm, her skirts sweeping the air in wide arcs. You see the hammer and bell challenge beside her and step forward, but somehow you miss, though you strike with all your might. Next, a boxer in the ring grabs hold of your toe—he’s a strange one, like a sumo who left his mittens by the dock, his laugh deep and unfathomable. Around you, freaks and fortunes twist and collide, creatures of illusion, like characters from a song half-remembered.

You stumble into the fortune teller’s tent, where the hangman, of all people, sits kissing the feet of an empress. She looks up at you with a knowing smile, and a chill creeps up your spine as the cards—tarot, tarot—whisper among themselves, hinting at secrets you’re almost afraid to hear.

Outside, a clown with a monkey mask offers you flowers, their petals made of bright tinsel and paper. You hand him your last coins, and he smiles, ringing a small bell that echoes through the carnival. “All is well,” it seems to say, though you wouldn’t know why you believe it.

The young man with a tattoo steps forward, gripping knives he throws at the naked girl spinning on the wheel. He calls himself Zorro, but his aim is shaky. If he misses, he wins a prize—perhaps the fighting panda from the loft or a doll that talks in the dark.

The happy families pass by, their children wide-eyed as they glance at the three-headed man and the bearded lady, sharing popcorn and secrets they can’t understand. Parents, lost in the spectacle, miss the glimmer of longing in their children’s eyes—a yearning that no mask, no glittering carnival can truly satisfy.

Later, you drift to the promenade, away from the noise. The seagulls flock close as you toss crumbs into the wind, their feathers flashing white like ghostly signatures across the blue. You look to the horizon, where the sky meets the sea, and the foam spells out words you cannot read. Over there, you think, beyond that edge of the sky, perhaps the carnival drifts, waiting, the astral colours of the day hidden beneath its layers.

And then, a final whisper rises, carried by the salt breeze, as if from an uncharted land: Let the cynics cling to their masks. Let the innocent create rings of fire for the children kissing the sun.

We don’t need a ticket, we don’t need a guide—just the courage to walk that horizon toward the blue, where the carnival fades, where the laughter echoes long and low, and the stars, watching over, nod their silent approval.