Low

I feel low. Like a million souls just cried out in agony and then were silenced. Like a dog, who loving his master unconditionally, runs to him tongue a scatter, tail a wagging, and without a thought of what he's done wrong, receives a kick on the nose. Like a viral melancholoy infecting, the constipated souls of  a troupe of clowns, who having performed the same schtick over and again and are out of jokes, and the jokes weren't ever really funny anyway.  The acrobats are grounded, suddenly succumbing to an oppressive gravity; the animals, once allowed to run free, then run in the ring, are now standing still in their stifling confinements; the circus, once a buzz, once exciting, once a long looked for celebration is all packed up and headed out through the bad part of town; the open field where it once stood is still littered with popcorn, cotton candy, paper, and spent ticket stubs. Holes remain where once, the mighty tent poles stood. The big top is folded haphazardly into a lump like the fresh carcass of the once mighty dead.

Like something happened and you are caught up in the flying and twirling and in the setting of rings on fire and then, abruptly, it ends. And you only find that there is really no show beyond the stage and the final curtain. And the show you just saw was simply-

 an illusion.